presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

by 
Douglas   Warren 


ROMANCES     OF     EARLY 
AMERICA 


^N^t*-* 


ROMANCES    OF 
EARLY  AMERICA 

By     Edward     Robins 


en/. 


4nno  Domini    MCMIl  f 
/  George  W.  Jacobs   and  \ 
Company.  Philadelphia 


.  #ene$ict  Bcnoio  (pe 


il>  CbttD 


ROMANCES    OF 
EARLY  AMERICA 

Robins 


Anno  Domini    MCMII 


George  W.  Jacob  a   and 


Company.  Philadelphia 


COPYRIGHT  1902  BY 
GEORGE  W.  JACOBS  &  CO. 
PUBLISHED  JULY,  1902 


PREFACE 


IT  was  once  said  of  Americans,  in  terms  of  reproach, 
that  they  had  no  past.  But  they  were  only  in  the 
position  of  the  lad  who,  when  twitted  about  his 
youth,  answered  that  he  would  outgrow  the  fault,  "  if 
given  a  little  time."  America  is  fast  outgrowing  this 
fault  of  extreme  youth.  The  country  already  has  a  past 
of  which  it  may  be  proud,  and  one  that  is  full  of  pictur- 
esqueness.  The  more  it  is  written  about  the  more  inter- 
esting it  seems,  and  the  greater  is  the  wonder  that  the 
New  World  offers  so  much  pleasant  romance  to  the 
reader.  The  age  in  which  we  live  may  be  prosaic,  and 
marked  by  the  worship  of  Mammon,  yet  the  public  never 
showed  a  livelier  appreciation  than  it  does  now  of  the 
dead-and-gone  heroes  and  heroines  who  lived  and  loved, 
lost  or  won,  in  the  early  days  of  our  history.  I  trust, 
therefore,  that  a  place  in  the  bookcase  may  be  found  for 
these  "Romances  of  Early  America."  The  characters  of 
whom  they  treat  faded  into  shadows  many  years  ago, 
but  the  theme  of  the  volume — "the  old,  old  story"— is 
ever  new,  and  worth  the  telling. 
In  addition  to  such  original  researches  as  I  have  made,  it 


PREFACE 


has  been  my  welcome  duty  to  consult  a  variety  of  books 
bearing,  either  directly  or  incidentally,  upon  the  subjects 
of  the  "Romances."  This  literature  included  Watson's 
chatty  Annals,  Brown's  Beneath  Old  Roof  Trees,  Glenn's 
Colonial  Mansions,  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer's  Goede  Vrouw 
of  Mana-ha-ta,  the  Memorial  History  of  New  York, 
Mrs.  Banning's  biography  of  Miss  Vining,  a  Revolution- 
ary Belle,  Mrs.  Ellet's  Women  of  the  American  Revolu- 
tion, Alger's  Life  of  Edwin  Forrest,  Elias  Nason's  Life 
of  Sir  Charles  Henry  Franhland,  Paul  Leicester  Ford's 
The  True  George  Washington,  Jenkins's  Historical  Col- 
lections Relating  to  Gwynedd,  the  Pennsylvania  Magazine, 
edited  by  John  W.  Jordan,  Maud  Wilder  Goodwin's 
Life  of  Dolly  Madison,  the  American  Historical  Regis- 
ter, and  Miss  Wharton's  Colonial  Days  and  Dames. 

In  the  preparation  of  the  following  pages  I  have  passed 
many  an  agreeable  hour.  I  have  not  written  in  vain  if  a 
small  part  of  my  own  enjoyment  is  shared  by  the  reader. 

EDWARD  ROBINS. 

Philadelphia, 
June  i,  1902. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.  THE  MESCHIANZA  —  AND  LOVE-MAK- 
ING: A  STORY  OF  OLD  PHILA- 
DELPHIA -  ii 

II.  PEASANT  AND  PATRICIAN:  IN  COLO- 
NIAL BOSTON  -  35 

III.  WAR  AND  FLIRTATION  :    MISS  WISTER 

AT  PENLLYN  -      55 

IV.  A  BELLE  OF  DELAWARE  :  MISS  VINING, 

OF  WILMINGTON  AND  DOVER      -     85 

V.  A    DISAPPOINTMENT    IN    LOVE:    LEG- 

ENDS FROM  VIRGINIA  -    101 

VI.  CONSPIRACIES     AND     CUPID:      NEW 

YORK    AND    HER    ROYAL    GOV- 
ERNORS -    119 

VII.     BORN  TO    BE    A    REBEL:     A    PRETTY 

BOSTONIAN  .     147 

7 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

VIII.    EDWIN  FORREST'S  FIRST  LOVE  :  NEW 

ORLEANS  IN  THE  "TWENTIES"    -     163 

IX.    AN  UNCOMPROMISING  TORY  :  NORTH 

CAROLINA    AND    LOYALISM         -    183 

X.    THE  GHOSTS  OF   GRAEME    PARK  :    A 

PENNSYLVANIA  ROMANCE    -       -    201 

XI.  WASHINGTON  AS  A  WOOER  :  SWEET- 
HEARTS IN  VIRGINIA  AND  NEW 
YORK  -  -  219 

XII.     A  QUAKER  TRANSFORMED  :  THE  LEAD- 
ER OF  WASHINGTON  SOCIETY        239 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


MRS.  BENEDICT  ARNOLD  (PEGGY  SHIPPEN) 
AND  CHILD,  FROM  THE  PORTRAIT  BY  SIR 
THOMAS  LAWRENCE  IN  THE  COLLECTION 
OF  THE  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY  OF  PENN- 
SYLVANIA -  Frontispiece 

THE  FRANKLAND  MANSION,  BOSTON,  RESI- 
DENCE OF  SIR  CHARLES  HENRY  AND 
LADY  FRANKLAND,  REDRAWN  FROM  AN 
OLD  PRINT  Facing  page  36 

SIR  CHARLES  HENRY  FRANKLAND,  FROM  AN 
ETCHING  IN  THE  POSSESSION  OF  THE 
BOSTONIAN  SOCIETY  Facing  page  50 

THE  FOULKE  HOUSE  AT  PENLLYN,  FROM  AN 
ETCHING  BY  BLANCHE  DILLAYE  MADE 
FOR  "HISTORICAL  COLLECTIONS  RELA- 
TING TO  GWYNEDD,"  BY  HOWARD  M. 
JENKINS  Facing  page  56 

MISS    SALLY  WISTER,    FROM  A   SILHOUETTE 
PORTRAIT    IN   THE    POSSESSION  OF  MR. 
CHARLES      J.      WISTER      OF      GERMAN- 
TOWN     -  Facing  page    68 
9 


ILLUSTRAT IONS 


GENERAL  ANTHONY  WAYNE,  FROM  A  PAINT- 
ING AFTER  THE  PORTRAIT  BY  COLONEL 
TRUMBULL,  IN  THE  TRUMBULL  GALLERY 
AT  NEW  HAVEN  -  Facing  page  86 

THOMAS  JEFFERSON  AS  A  YOUNG  MAN,  FROM 
AN  OLD  ENGRAVING  -  Facing  page  102 

THE  WHITE  HALL,  NEW  YORK,  OFFICIAL  RESI- 
DENCE OF  THE  COLONIAL  GOVERNORS 
OF  THE  PROVINCE  OF  NEW  YORK,  RE- 
DRAWN FROM  AN  OLD  PRINT,  Facing  page  120 

A  CORNER  OF  BOSTON  IN  REVOLUTIONARY 
DAYS,  FROM  AN  OLD  PRINT  -  Facing  page  148 

EDWIN  FORREST  AT  THE  AGE  OF  TWENTY- 
ONE,  FROM  ONE  OF  THE  EARLIEST  POR- 
TRAITS OF  THE  ACTOR  -  -  Facing  page  164 

FLORA   MACDONALD  IN  HIGHLAND  DRESS, 

FROM  AN  OLD  ENGRAVING    -    Facing  page  184 

GRAEME  PARK,  THE  RESIDENCE  OF  SIR 
WILLIAM  KEITH,  FROM  A  PAINTING  BY 
I.  L.  WILLIAMS  IN  THE  COLLECTION  OF 
THE  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY  OF  PENNSYL- 
VANIA -  -  -  Facing  page  202 

MISS  MARY  PHILIPSE  (SISTER  OF  MRS.  BEVER- 
LCY  ROBINSON,  OF  NEW  YORK),  FROM 
AN  OLD  ENGRAVING  -  Facing  page  220 

MRS.  JAMES  MADISON  (DOLLY  PAYNE),  FROM 
A  PAINTING  BY  GILBERT  STUART  IN  THE 
POSSESSION  OF  RICHARD  CUTTS,  M.  D., 
WASHINGTON  Facing  pap  240 

10 


THE     MESCHIANZA 


AND     LOVE-MAKING 


THE  MESCHIANZA  — AND  LOVE-MAKING 

IT  is  a  bright  day  of  May,  in  the  year  of  grace  1778,' 
and  in  the  year  of  American  independence  2.  Yet 
no  one  who  is  abroad  this  sunny  morning  in  the 
tree-lined  streets  of  Philadelphia  sees  much  sign  of  an 
independence  which  defies  the  power  of  Great  Britain, 
the  former  mistress  and  mother  of  all  the  thirteen  colo- 
nies. For  the  sober  town,  once  the  stronghold  of  the 
drab-coated  Quaker,  is  filled  with  gayly-dressed  English 
officers,  resplendent  in  red  cloth  and  gold  lace,  while 
burly  privates  and  lusty  sailors,  all  wearing  the  uniforms 
of  His  Majesty,  King  George,  strut  proudly  here  and 
there,  as  they  hail  some  passing  tradesman  or  turn  an 
admiring  glance  upon  a  demure  maiden  who  watches 
them  from  the  vantage  of  her  father's  door-step.  Surely 
there  are  no  indications  in  this  display  of  royal  power 
that  America  is  free  to  govern  herself. 

Every  one  in  Philadelphia  knows,  indeed,  that  Wash- 
ington and  his  half-starved,  half-naked  troops  have  been 
having  a  sorry  winter  of  it  twenty  miles  away  at  Valley 
Forge,  while  General  Sir  William  Howe  and  his  own 
men  have  enjoyed  life  safely  and  comfortably  housed 

13 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

in  the  Quaker  City.  The  truth  is  that  Sir  William  has 
enjoyed  life  so  well,  and  taken  military  matters  so 
placidly,  that  he  has  not  yet  conquered  America.  So  his 
resignation  has  been  accepted  by  the  disappointed  British 
government,  and  he  is  succeeded  in  command  by  Sir 
Henry  Clinton. 

But  what  mean  all  the  commotion,  the  glitter  of  gold 
lace,  the  flashing  of  swords,  the  hurrying  to  and  fro  of 
sailors  and  the  excitement  of  the  people  of  the  city? 
What  means  the  bustle  that  prevails  in  the  staunch  brick 
houses  in  the  fashionable  part  of  town,  where  the  young 
women  of  the  first  Tory  families  are  indalging  in  those 
wonderful  mysteries  of  the  toilet?  Such  a  lacing  of 
bodices,  mingled  with  the  occasional  snap  of  a  stay,  and 
a  cry  of  feminine  despair!  What  a  smoothing  of  gowns 
and  an  arranging  of  headdresses,  as  fond  mammas  work 
like  slaves  to  get  Miss  Peggy  or  Miss  Lavinia  into  "gen- 
teel" condition,  while  younger  sisters  of  the  beauties 
look  on  enviously.  Dinah,  the  black  cook,  comes  up- 
stairs and  holds  up  her  ebony  hands  in  mute  admiration, 
as  she  surveys  the  results  of  a  month's  millinery  devising; 
or  perhaps  dear  papa  drops  in  from  his  counting-room, 
feels  proud  of  his  daughters,  and  wonders,  poor  man, 
how  much  all  this  finery  will  cost  him. 

If  we  visit  the  Richard  Penn  mansion  where  Sir  William 
Howe  has  his  headquarters,  on  the  south  side  of  Market 
Street  below  Sixth,  we  find  that  tall,  florid,  good-natured 
gentleman  arraying  himself  in  the  full  uniform  of  a  Brit-  /. 

14 


MESCHIANZA  —  AND       LOVE  -  MAKING 

ish  general.  It  is  proper  that  he  should  so  array  himself, 
for  he  is  the  cause  of  all  the  stir  in  the  streets  and  of  all 
the  dressing  in  the  houses  of  the  "quality."  As  a  part- 
ing compliment,  ere  he  returns  to  England  in  the  role  of 
a  hero  ?  his  officers  are  to  give  him  a  great  entertainment 
which  is  to  go  down  to  history  as  the  Meschianza,  or 
medley.  This  is  why  the  hearts  of  the  Philadelphia 
maidens  are  in  such  a  flutter. 

Several  of  those  hearts  may  secretly  beat  true  for  the 
American  cause.  Perhaps  their  possessors,  if  they  were 
quite  logical  and  consistent,  would  refuse  to  take  part  in 
the  Meschianza.  But  one  should  not  ask  too  much  of 
human  nature,  or  of  that  part  of  it  which  loves  the  color 
of  a  military  coat,  be  its  wearer  friend  or  enemy.  "  The 
British  officers  have  been  so  polite,  my  dear."  How 
can  any  Tory's  daughter  who  is  less  than  superhuman 
resist  the  allurements  of  the  coming  program,  or  the  en- 
treaties of  the  aforesaid  officers  ?  And  then,  that  dashing 
John  Andre,  who  writes  such  delightful  poetry  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice,  and  who  paints  so  divinely,  is  to  be  there! 
Andre!  Whenever  his  name  is  mentioned  even  the  patri- 
otic Philadelphia  girls  of  Whig  families  forget,  for  the 
nonce,  that  a  Continental  soldier  ever  existed.  They 
cannot  help  themselves,  poor  things.  To  them  Captain 
Andre  typifies  all  the  masculine  graces.  Nor  is  he  the 
less  interesting  because  it  is  whispered  that  he  is  in  love 
with  the  attractive  Miss  Peggy  Chew.  They  must  be  a 
trifle  envious  of  their  Tory  friends  who  have  accepted 

15 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

invitations  to  attend  the  Meschianza,  and  who  flaunt  be- 
fore them  the  cards  or  tickets  which  have  been  sent  for 
the  entertainment.  These  are  impressive  pasteboards  on 
which  are  engraved  cannon,  flags,  a  view  of  the  ocean, 
with  the  setting  sun,  the  legend  "  Vive,  Vale,"  and  a  fine 
Latin  motto:  "  Luceo  discedens  aucto  splendore  resur- 
gam."  Only  a  few,  yea,  a  very  few,  of  the  fair  recipi- 
ents comprehend  the  motto,  but  all  of  them  vow  that  it 
must  be  something  sublime.  Unlike  the  Whigs,  they 
have  no  qualms  about  taking  part  in  the  coming  fete. 
They  only  hope  that  the  charming  British  will  never  leave 
Philadelphia,  nor  yield  the  town  to  the  beggarly,  bare- 
footed Continentals.  For  let  it  not  be  forgotten  that 
among  the  good  people  of  the  place  there  are  some,  more 
particularly  those  who  nourish  pretensions  to  aristocracy, 
who  look  upon  the  Revolution  as  hopelessly  foolish, 
criminal,  and — far  worse — distinctly  vulgar.  They  are 
sorry,  indeed,  that  so  gentlemanly  a  Virginian  as  Mr. 
George  Washington  should  have  seen  fit  to  take  com- 
mand of  a  rabble.  How  much  better  would  he  appear 
in  a  British  uniform! 

Morning  changes  into  afternoon.  The  townspeople, 
ranging  in  rank  from  baker's  boy  to  pompous  merchant, 
hasten  towards  Knight's  wharf,  on  the  river  Delaware,  at 
the  northern  end  of  the  town.1  Moored  out  in  the  broad 
river  are  all  sorts  of  curious  craft,  manned  by  the  sailors 
from  the  British  men-of-war,  who  are  evidently  prepar- 

1  Knight's  wharf  was  at  the  end  of  Green  Street. 
16 


MESCHIANZA  —  AND       LOVE  -  MAKING 

ing  to  receive  distinguished  visitors.  Some  of  the  more 
adventurous  of  the  Philadelphians  clamber  into  row- 
boats  and  push  out  into  the  stream,  while  the  rest  line 
the  bank.  Bees  swarming  around  a  hive  could  not  show 
more  animation. 

It  is  now  four  o'clock.  The  warm  May  sun,  which 
has  crawled  over  to  the  Philadelphia  side  of  the  Delaware, 
is  shining  down  on  the  many  notables  who  have  boarded 
the  craft  in  the  river.  There  is  a  group  of  British  officers, 
laughing  as  merrily  as  if  they  were  celebrating  some 
triumph  over  the  Americans,  and  here  is  a  bevy  of 
beauties  from  the  town.  The  latter  look  pretty  enough 
to  justify  the  boast,  to  be  made  in  later  days,  that  Phila- 
delphia women  are  the  loveliest  in  the  world.  All  the 
lacing  and  powdering  and  adornment  have  had  a 
dazzling  effect.  There  is  no  thought,  for  the  moment, 
of  tired,  worried  Washington.  Gaiety  reigns  supreme. 
Englishmen  are  bending  amorously  over  the  witty  Jewess, 
Rebecca  Franks,  and  over  Miss  Chew,  Miss  Jane  Craig, 
the  Misses  Bond,  and  the  rest. 

There  is  to  be  a  regatta  as  a  preliminary  to  the  fgte. 
The  fleet  consists  of  three  divisions.  In  the  van  is  a 
galley  bearing  some  of  the  officers  and  ladies.  Then 
comes  another  galley,  carrying  on  its  deck  Sir  William 
Howe,  Admiral  Lord  Howe,  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  the  new 
commander-in-chief,  their  suites,  and  more  fair  women. 
Another  galley,  with  no  less  precious  freight,  brings  up 
the  rear.  Hovering  near  the  galleys  are  five  flat  boats 

17 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

lined  with  green  cloth,  which  forms  a  striking  back- 
ground to  the  gorgeous  clothes,  both  gowns  and  uni- 
forms, of  the  occupants.  Six  barges  make  a  sort  of 
cordon  around  these  vessels,  to  keep  off  the  recruits  from 
the  vulgar  herd,  who  are  paddling  about  in  their  little  row- 
boats  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  so  much  aristocracy.  In 
front  of  the  whole  line  are  three  batteaux  filled  with 
musicians  who  play  the  airs  of  old  England.  All  the 
boats  of  the  fleet  are  decorated  with  bunting,  as  are  like- 
wise the  ships  which  are  anchored  in  the  river  along  the 
whole  water-front  of  the  town.  At  the  end  of  High  and 
other  streets,  all  along  the  river,  the  wharves  are  crowded 
with  spectators,  some  of  whom  look  on  sympathetically, 
whilst  others  mutter  smothered  curses  at  the  sight  of 
so  many  red-coats  fraternizing  with  the  daughters  of 
Americans. 

It  is  half-past  four  o'clock,  or  a  little  later.  The  gal- 
leys, the  barges,  and  the  other  boats  move  slowly  down 
the  river  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  music.  When 
opposite  High  Street  (now  Market  Street)  wharf  the  many 
oarsmen  rest.  The  musicians  play  "God  Save  the 
King,"  and  the  men  on  the  ships  at  anchor  burst  forth 
into  three  cheers.  It  is  a  brilliant  spectacle.  Who  in 
all  this  crowd  surmises  that  in  after  years  this  same  old 
tune  of  "  God  Save  the  King  "  will  be  played  in  the  town 
to  the  words  of  "America!"  Then,  when  "God  Save 
the  King"  is  finished,  the  fleet  moves  down  the  river 
until  it  reaches  the  Old  Fort  fronting  the  Wharton  estate, 

18 


MESCHIANZA  —  AND       LOVE  -  MAKING 

near  what  will,  in  later  times,  be  called  Washington 
Avenue  wharf.  No  thought  of  Washington  now  unless 
it  be  as  of  one  who  may  some  day  be  hung  as  a  traitor  to 
His  Most  Gracious  Majesty,  George  III. 

Here  a  landing  is  made,  amid  much  laughter  on  the 
part  of  the  ladies,  who  are  afraid  of  wetting  their  daintily 
slippered  feet;  but  gallant  assistance  from  the  officers 
prevents  such  a  catastrophe.  H.  M.  S.  Roebuck  fires 
a  salute  of  seventeen  guns;  after  the  roar  has  died  away 
there  comes  a  greeting  from  the  cannon  of  another  war- 
ship. The  party  of  merrymakers,  now  safe  on  land, 
advance  bravely  up  to  a  magnificent  lawn  through  an 
avenue  formed  by  towering  grenadiers  and  light-horse- 
men. Before  them  march  the  musicians  and  the 
"managers"  of  the  Meschianza,  the  latter  wearing 
proudly  upon  their  coats  badges  of  white  and  blue 
ribbons.  The  guests  find  the  lawn  edged  with  troops. 
For  the  ladies  are  rows  of  benches  from  which  they  can 
watch  the  tournament  that  is  about  to  be  given  in  their 
honor.  The  Knights  of  the  Blended  Rose,  representing  the 
cause  of  seven  belles,  are  about  to  wage  war  to  the  death 
with  the  Knights  of  the  Burning  Mountain,  who  will  as- 
sert the  superior  beauty  and  accomplishments  of  seven 
other  maidens.  The  ladies  thus  honored  sit  in  the  front 
benches,  wearing  (let  us  hope  becomingly)  Turkish 
costumes,  capped  by  turbans  in  which  the  favors  of  their 
respective  champions  are  pinned  conspicuously. 

There  is  a  wild  blare  of  trumpets  in  the  distance.     The 

19 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

next  instant  the  Knights  of  the  Blended  Rose,  headed  by 
the  debonair  Lord  Cathcart  (who  has  for  his  protegee 
Miss  Auchmuty,  an  English  girl),  come  prancing  into  the 
lists  mounted  on  gray  horses  gorgeously  caparisoned. 
The  cavaliers  are  attended  by  a  band  of  squires,  heralds 
and  trumpeters,  and  are  dressed  in  wonderful  garments 
of  red  and  white  silk.  One  squire  holds  Lord  Cathcart's 
lance;  another  carries  his  shield;  two  negroes,  grinning 
beatifically  in  habits  of  white  and  blue,  with  silver 
clasps  upon  their  shining  black  necks  and  arms,  hold  the 
champion's  stirrups.  It  is  a  scene  worthy  of  a  mediaeval 
romance.  Can  it  be  equaled  by  any  London  pageant  ? 

There  is  much  reining-in  of  the  gray  horses,  and 
round  after  round  of  applause  from  the  spectators. 
Then,  after  more  blare  of  trumpets,  a  herald  steps  for- 
ward into  the  arena  and  throws  down  the  gage  of  battle. 
Three  times  does  he  cry  that  the  ladies  championed  by 
the  Knights  of  the  Blended  Rose  are  fairer,  wittier,  and 
more  accomplished  than  the  ladies  of  any  other  knights. 
There  is  a  pause.  The  young  women  in  the  Turkish 
costumes  try  to  look  graceful;  the  others  flirt  their  fans 
to  and  fro  and  await  developments. 

Now  there  is  a  fresh  flourish  of  trumpets,  as  the 
Knights  of  the  Burning  Mountain,  dressed  in  black  and 
orange,  come  riding  into  the  lists.  Their  herald  defies 
the  challengers,  throws  down  the  gauntlet,  and  loudly 
sets  forth  the  superiority  of  the  ladies  who  are  under  the 
protection  of  his  masters.  Captain  Watson,  the  chieftain 

20 


MESCHIANZA  —  AND       LOVE  -  MAKING 

of  these  brave  knights,  has  for  his  lady  Miss  Rebecca 
Franks.  He  flaunts  upon  his  shield  a  heart;  his  motto, 
worthy  of  some  Cceur  de  Leon,  is  "Love  and  Glory." 
The  spectators  hold  their  breath.  They  almost  fancy 
that  the  gentlemen  of  the  Blended  Rose  and  the  gentle- 
men of  the  Burning  Mountain  are  about  to  fight  one  an- 
other to  the  death.  What  a  delightful  tragedy ! 

Suddenly  there  is  the  crash  of  battle.  Look!  The  two 
bands  of  knights  rush  madly  at  each  other.  Such  a  clat- 
tering of  hoofs,  neighing  of  horses,  and  clashing  of 
shields  and  lances!  Such  a  tilting,  and  jousting,  and  par- 
rying; such  an  apparent  fierceness  on  the  part  of  the 
combatants,  yet  such  a  skilful  avoidance  of  real  danger! 
It  resembles  some  theatrical  spectacle  where  the  contend- 
ing armies  do  their  work  with  careful  zest.  The  ladies, 
particularly  the  pretty  Turks,  are  enchanted.  They  seem 
to  be  back  in  the  times  of  the  Chevalier  Bayard.  Quaker 
Philadelphia  has  vanished. 

There  are  four  savage  encounters,  ending  with  much 
shedding — not  of  blood,  but  rather  of  helmets,  and  rib- 
bons, and  ornaments.  Then  comes  the  piece  de  resist- 
ance. Captain  Watson  and  Lord  Cathcart,  spurring  on 
their  horses,  rush  at  each  other  unattended.  There  is  a 
collision  !  The  ladies  clasp  their  hands  in  excitement. 
Are  the  two  chiefs  wounded?  Awful  thought!  No. 
They  have  each  drawn  back,  after  the  first  shock,  and 
are  at  it  again  with  their  golden  lances.  At  last,  when 

they  look   weary  and  dusty,  the  marshal  of    the  field 

21 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

rushes  between  them.  "Hold!  "  he  cries.  "The  ladies  of 
the  Blended  Rose  and  the  ladies  of  the  Burning  Mountain 
are  well  pleased  with  the  proofs  of  valor  and  loyalty 
which  their  respective  knights  have  given  so  nobly,  and 
now,  fully  satisfied  therewith,  they  command  their 
knights  to  desist  from  further  combat! " 

So  the  brave  knights,  thus  passionately  adjured,  stop 
the  fight,  bow  low  to  the  audience,  and  ride  out  of  the 
lists.  The  tournament  is  over;  but  the  fete  has  hardly 
begun.  The  dancing,  the  innocent  love-making,  the 
vows  of  officers  who  protest  all  sorts  of  nonsense,  and 
the  half-pleased,  half-angry  remonstrances  of  their  part- 
ners, are  yet  to  come. 

It  is  evening.  The  company  are  assembled  in  the  ball- 
room of  a  building  on  the  Wharton  property.  "  How 
beautiful!  "  exclaim  the  women,  as  they  are  ushered  in; 
"  what  taste  Captain  Andre  has,  forsooth!"  They  speak 
truly.  The  Captain  is  a  clever  painter  and  designer. 
The  room  has  been  decorated  in  pale  blue,  paneled  with 
gold,  with  festoons  of  flowers;  a  dazzling  array  of 
mirrors  reflect  the  loveliness  of  Philadelphia  in  the  light 
of  myriads  of  wax  candles.  The  music  begins.  The 
Knights  of  the  Blended  Rose  and  the  Knights  of  the 
Burning  Mountain  tread  a  minuet  with  their  protegees. 
Then  the  dancing  becomes  general.  At  ten  o'clock  the 
windows  are  suddenly  thrown  open.  A  great  bouquet 
of  rockets  is  lighting  up  the  darkness,  and  the  sparks,  de- 
scending like  so  many  fireflies,  fall  into  the  placid  ripples 

22 


MESCHIANZA  —  AND       LOVE  -  MAKING 

of  the  Delaware.  ' '  The  Chinese  fireworks  have  begun ! " 
cry  the  guests.  There  is  a  sudden  rush  to  see  the  dis- 
play, with  many  expressions  of  admiration  which  cease 
not  until  the  last  rocket  has  sputtered  out  its  brief,  golden 
life. 

The  supper  follows  the  display  of  fireworks.  In  a 
large  room,  elaborately  decorated  for  the  occasion  with 
mirrors  and  candelabra,  are  tables  laden  with  every- 
thing that  the  Philadelphia  markets  can  supply;  not  to 
mention  the  wine  which  the  well-fed  British  hosts  have 
brought  from  abroad  for  solace  and  consolation.  What  a 
clatter  of  knives  and  forks  now  ensues;  what  popping  of 
corks  and  laughter;  what  tender  looks  are  cast  upon  the 
fair  ones!  How  amiable  and  florid  grow  the  officers,  as 
some  of  them  predict,  in  their  over-confident,  British  way, 
that  "this  beastly  war  will  soon  be  over,"  or  that  "the 
wretched,  ragged  rebels  will  shortly  be  humbled." 

Towards  the  end  of  the  meal  there  is  a  stir.  "  Make 
way!  Make  way ! "  cry  several  voices.  At  this  the  her- 
ald and  trumpeters  of  the  Blended  Rose  enter  the  room 
and  proclaim  the  "health  of  His  Most  Gracious  Majesty, 
King  George,  and  of  the  members  of  the  Royal  Family." 
At  once  chairs  are  pushed  back,  the  merrymakers  rise  to 
their  feet,  and  many  a  glass  is  drained  in  honor  of  that 
very  obstinate  gentleman  who  is  trying  to  crush  out 
American  independence. 

What  ?  Can  it  be  that  Miss is  raising  her  glass, 

and  drinking  to  the  royal  toast  ?  Yes ;  there  can  be  no 

23 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

mistake.  But  let  us  not  be  uncharitable  enough  to  ex- 
pose the  pretty  traitor.  In  a  short  time,  when  the  Conti- 
nental army  is  once  more  in  possession  of  Philadelphia, 
she  will  be  only  too  anxious  to  forget  that  she  responded 
to  such  a  bumper.  After  the  toast  to  Royalty  come  the 
healths  of  the  ladies.  Then  the  party,  radiant  with  pleas- 
ure, return  to  the  ballroom,  where  Sir  William  Howe, 
looking  as  jolly  as  if  he  were  going  back  to  England  as  a 
triumphant  Caesar  or  a  conquering  Hannibal,  is  not  above 
joining  heavily  in  the  dancing.  During  an  interval  in  the 
figures  the  band  plays  "Britons,  Strike  Home!"  Had 
the  general  a  keen  imagination,  which  he  has  not,  he 
might  construe  the  words,  "  Britons,  Go  Home! " 

Who  is  the  pretty  young  girl  who  tearfully  leans  out  of 
her  window  on  this  eventful  evening,  as  she  sees  the  fire- 
works from  afar,  and  rails  at  the  unkind  fate  which  has 
prevented  her  from  going  to  the  Meschianza  ?  It  is  Miss 
Peggy  Shippen,  a  daughter  of  Edward  Shippen,  one  of  the 
best  known  citizens  of  Philadelphia.  Near  her  are  her  two 
sisters,  Miss  Sarah  and  Miss  Molly.  They,  too,  are  full 
of  woe.  Miss  Peggy,  who  is  the  leading  belle  of  the 
town,  although  hardly  eighteen  years  old,  was  to  have 
had  a  champion  at  the  tilting,  who  expected  to  bear  the 
device  of  a  bay  leaf,  with  "Unchangeable"  for  his 
motto.  She  cannot  see  the  irony  of  that  motto,  as  ap- 
plied to  herself.  She  cannot  look  into  the  future,  to  find 
that  she  will  marry  a  man  who  is  to  prove  anything  but 
"unchangeable"  to  his  country.  Nor  can  she  look  into 

24 


MESCHIANZA  —  AND       LOVE  -  MAKING 

her  horoscope  to  detect  therein  the  form  of  Benedict 
Arnold.  Now,  however,  the  young  lady  and  her  sisters 
are  not  troubling  themselves  about  the  future;  they  are 
only  thinking  of  the  present,  with  the  dancing  at  the 
Wharton  place,  the  flirtations,  the  drinking  of  toasts,  and 
the  merrymaking.  All  three  were  to  have  been  there, 
but  at  the  last  minute  their  cruel  papa  forbade  them  to 
attend.  Was  there  ever  such  an  outrage  in  all  the  prov- 
inces ?  The  Misses  Shippen  feel  that  for  them  there  is  no 
more  pleasure  in  life,  as  they  picture  the  good  times  that 
Becky  Franks,  Peggy  Chew,  Nancy  White,  Becky  Bond 
and  all  their  friends  are  having,  with  the  red-coated  offi- 
cers bending  over  them  and  plying  them  with  the  com- 
pliments so  grateful  to  the  feminine  soul!  The  very 
thought  of  it  is  maddening! l 

Mr.  Shippen  cannot  be  accused  of  being  partial  to  the 
Revolutionary  cause,  but  he  has  decided,  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, that  his  daughters  must  stay  at  home.  Several  of 
his  friends,  prominent  Quakers,  have  visited  him  on  the 
very  day  of  the  fete,  and  have  convinced  him  that  it 
would  not  be  "seemly"  for  his  daughters  to  appear  in 
the  "highly  indelicate  "  Turkish  dresses  designed  for  the 
occasion.  Perhaps  papa  has  inspected  the  costumes,  but, 

1  Although  the  names  of  the  Misses  Shippen  often  appear  in  the  list  of 
guests  at  the  Meschianza,  it  has  been  proved  that  the  young  ladies  were 
not  present.  The  tradition  in  the  Shippen  family  shows  that  their  father 
was  the  culprit  who  put  an  end,  as  narrated  above,  to  all  their  brilliant 
anticipations. 

25 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

be  that  as  it  may,  he  has  issued  his  horrible  command. 
No  Meschianza  for  Peggy,  or  Sally,  or  Molly!  How  they 
storm  at  those  meddlesome  Quakers.  How  beautiful 
look  the  Turkish  dresses  that  they  must  not  wear — more 
beautiful  now  than  before,  like  so  much  forbidden  fruit. 
Well,  well!  This  is  what  comes  of  having  neighbors 
who  do  not  attend  strictly  to  their  own  affairs. 

But  to  return  to  the  entertainment.  There  is  a  lady  in 
the  ballroom  to  whom  Captain  Watson  is  paying  assidu- 
ous court.  She  has  dark  eyes  and  hair,  with  a  frank, 
almost  audacious  expression,  and  a  mouth  that  denotes, 
by  a  downward  curve,  a  keen  sense  of  humor.  She  is 
Rebecca  Franks,  one  of  the  daughters  of  David  Franks, 
a  Jewish  merchant.  She  has  a  merry  wit,  which  she 
never  hesitates  to  use  against  friends  or  enemies.  In 
spite  of  her  almost  masculine  mind  she  is  by  no  means 
impervious  to  British  flattery,  and  she  is  an  avowed  Loy- 
alist, or  upholder  of  King  George.  After  the  British  have 
left  Philadelphia  a  characteristic  story  will  be  related  about 
Miss  Franks.  Colonel  Jack  Steward,  an  American  officer, 
calls  upon  her,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  red.  "  I  have  adopted 
your  colors,  my  princess,"  he  says,  with  a  bow,  "the 
better  to  secure  a  courteous  reception.  Deign  to  smile  on 
a  true  knight."  Rebecca  flushes  angrily  at  the  speech, 
which  politely  implies  that  only  an  English  uniform  can 
win  her  heart.  But  she  is  quick  to  retort:  "  How  the  ass 
glories  in  the  lion's  skin! " 

We  may  be  sure  that  Miss  Franks  is  saying  something 

26 


MESCHIANZA  —  AND      LOVE  -  MAKING 

brilliant  to  Captain  Watson.  Near  the  two  is  a  handsome 
fellow  of  aristocratic  bearing  and  fine  physique,  with  a 
face  in  which  resolution  and  a  certain  artistic  feeling  are 
attractively  blended.  The  British  officers  are,  for  the 
most  part,  obstinate  and  unsympathetic  of  face,  without 
much  indication  of  brain.  They  are  men  who  do  not 
seem  able  to  get  beyond  the  standard  of  a  horse-race  or  a 
wine-drinking  bout.  But  here  is  an  officer  whose  eyes 
beam  forth  feeling,  taste,  even  genius.  You  put  him 
down  at  once,  although  you  do  not  know  him,  as  a 
graceful  dilettante  who  has  an  eye  for  the  fine  arts,  and 
knows  something  more  than  the  average  narrow-minded 
soldier.  You  are  correct  in  this  estimate  of  character. 
The  gentleman  is  Captain  John  Andre.  He  has  a  pretty 
talent  for  drawing,  he  can  pen  dainty  verses  to  the  eye- 
brows of  Philadelphia  maidens,  and  he  understands  how 
to  act  in  amateur  theatricals  with  the  ease,  although 
hardly  with  the  power,  of  a  David  Garrick  or  a  Spranger 
Barry.  Has  he  not,  also,  painted  scenery  for  the  theatre 
on  Cedar  (South)  Street,  where  he  and  his  brother  of- 
ficers have  acted  for  the  edification  of  their  feminine 
adorers  ?  Furthermore,  he  is  a  brave  man  who  will  not 
hesitate  at  any  sacrifice  for  his  country.  No  wonder 
that  Andr6  is  a  beau  chevalier,  or  that  nearly  all  the  girls 
in  the  Quaker  City,  patriots  and  loyalists  alike,  have  had 
their  heads  turned  by  his  grace,  his  brilliancy  of  conver- 
sation, and  his  half-courtly,  half-easy  manners. 
This  hero,  who  has  had  so  much  to  do  with  making 

27 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

the  Meschianza  a  success,  is  looking  into  the  high-bred, 
winsome  face  of  Miss  Peggy  Chew.  All  Philadelphia 
has  heard  of  Miss  Chew,  the  daughter  of  Chief  Justice 
Benjamin  Chew,  of  "Cliveden,"  in  Germantown.  She 
has  been  one  of  the  most  admired  young  women  at  this 
evening's  entertainment,  and  many  a  companion  has 
envied  her,  in  having  for  her  knight  in  the  tournament 
none  other  than  Andre  himself.  "No  Rival"  was  his 
motto,  a  most  fitting  and  appropriate  one.  Nay,  more 
than  that,  is  it  not  whispered,  with  bated  breath,  that 
she  is  engaged  to  marry  this  British  officer  ?  He  has  had 
an  unfortunate  love  affair  over  in  England,  where  a  cer- 
tain lady  has  not  smiled  on  his  suit,  but  he  seems  to  have 
recovered  from  this  heart-wound,  and  is  gazing  at  Miss 
Peggy  as  if  America,  not  the  mother  country,  claimed 
his  knightly  allegiance.  One  thing,  say  the  gossips,  is 
quite  certain.  The  captain  has  written  some  beautiful 
verses  after  having  seen  her  charming  face  framed  by  a 
spray  of  apple  blossoms.  The  poetry  is  every  whit  as 
pretty,  they  add,  as  the  lines  he  dedicated  to  one  of  the 
Misses  Redman,  another  local  belle,  which  began: 

"  Return,  enraptured  hours, 

When  Delia's  heart  was  mine  : 

When  she  with  wreaths  of  flowers 

My  temples  would  entwine." 

"How  romantic,"  sigh  the  gossips,  who  wish  that 
some  Andr6  would  write  verses  in  their  honor. 
Thus  passes  the  Meschianza,  as  night  gives  place  to 

28 


MESCHIANZA  —  AND       LOVE  -  MAKING 

early  morning.  In  the  ballroom  the  dancing  and  the 
music  continue;  on  the  lawn,  in  front  of  the  Wharton 
house,  several  couples,  weary  of  the  heat  and  noise 
within,  are  walking  under  the  dim  light  of  Chinese 
lanterns,  enjoying  the  light  breeze  from  the  Delaware, 
and  whispering  all  sorts  of  pretty  nonsense.  Among 
the  strollers  are  Andre  and  Miss  Chew.  Out  on  the 
river  the  signal  lights  of  the  war-ships  shine  steadily.  It 
is  just  the  setting  for  a  performance  of  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
with  Andre,  who  can  act  so  well,  as  Montague.  No  one 
could  ask  for  a  fairer  background  for  the  play. 

Morning  has  come.  The  sun  is  struggling  up  from  the 
Jersey  horizon,  and  will  soon  be  shimmering  down  upon 
the  Delaware.  The  Meschianza  is  a  thing  of  the  past:  it 
has  gone  into  history,  and  will  give  the  feminine  par- 
ticipants something  to  talk  about  until  they  are  become 
grandmothers,  and  even  great-grandmothers.  The 
Misses  Chew,  Miss  Auchmuty,  the  sharp  tongued  Miss 
Franks,  the  Misses  Redman,  the  Misses  Bond  and  all  the 
other  beauties  are  sleeping  the  sleep  of  worn-out  dancers; 
while  many  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  King's  Army  are 
toasting  them  at  the  coffee-house.  These  officers,  see- 
ing that  the  time  for  sleep  is  passing  short,  have  resolved, 
with  due  heroism,  to  keep  up  the  festivities  until  duty 
calls  them  to  barracks  or  parade-ground.  The  grounds 
of  the  Wharton  place  look  as  if  they  had  been  struck  by  a 
whirlwind.  The  lanterns,  the  triumphal  arches,  the 
decorations,  seem  forlorn,  lonely,  even  ghastly. 

29 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

Let  us  move  on,  more  than  two  years  after  the  British 
have  evacuated  Philadelphia,  until  we  reach  Tappan, 
New  York,  on  an  October  day  in  1780.  In  an  open  field 
is  a  baggage-wagon,  surrounded  by  a  guard  of  Conti- 
nental troops.  Around  the  guard  stand  other  soldiers, 
with  sad  faces  and  moistened  eyes.  The  wagon  is  drawn 
up  directly  under  a  tree-branch  from  which  hangs  an 
ominous  looking  rope.  From  the  midst  of  the  soldiers  a 
handsome  young  man  appears,  and  jumping  nimbly  upon 
the  wagon,  he  snatches  one  end  of  the  rope  from  the 
hands  of  the  hangman,  opens  his  shirt-collar,  and  adjusts 
the  noose  about  his  neck.  After  all  is  ready  for  the 
gruesome  ceremony,  the  victim  lifts  the  bandage  from 
his  eyes.  "Gentlemen,"  he  says,  in  a  clear,  calm  voice, 
addressing  the  half-weeping  officers  who  are  near  the 
wagon,  "I  request  that  you  will  bear  witness  to  the 
world  that  I  died  like  a  brave  man!  "  A  minute  or  two 
later  he  is  beyond  the  reach  of  any  earthly  tribunal. 
"It  will  be  but  a  momentary  pang!"  are  his  last 
words. 

The  dead  body  which  is  cut  down  from  the  tree  is  that 
of  the  unfortunate  John  Andre.  Although  he  has  de- 
served his  death  as  a  spy,  because  of  his  plotting  with 
Benedict  Arnold  under  the  shadow  of  an  American 
stronghold,  yet  the  very  enemies  whom  he  has  sought 
to  betray  are  grieved  that  so  plucky  a  soldier  must  die 
by  the  gibbet.  Yonder,  over  at  the  house  occupied 
by  General  Washington,  the  blinds  have  been  pulled 

30 


MESCHIANZA  —  AND       LOVE  -  MAKING 

down.  The  General  is  as  sorry  as  any  one  else,  but  he 
has  no  right  to  grant  a  reprieve. 

Poor  Peggy  Chew!  There  are  tragic  moments — tears 
and  cries — awaiting  you  when  you  learn  the  fate  of 
Andre!  Treasure  up  his  verses,  and  recall  all  that  he  has 
said  to  you,  for  nothing  but  a  memory  is  left  of  your  old 
romance. 

Nearly  seven  years  more  elapse.  The  worthy  people 
of  Germantown  ask  themselves  if  Miss  Peggy  intends  to 
become  an  old  maid.  At  last  she  solves  the  riddle  by 
marrying  General  Howard,  the  hero  of  the  Cowpens — as 
staunch  a  patriot  as  ever  faced  cannon.  The  wedding 
takes  place  at  the  Chews'  city  mansion  in  Third  Street, 
Philadelphia.  General  Washington  is  there,  dignified 
and  stately,  and  makes  no  reference,  naturally  enough, 
to  the  dead  Andre.  In  after  years  Mistress  Howard  will 
often  speak  to  her  husband  of  the  many  virtues  and 
fascinations  of  her  old  admirer.  It  will  not  be  very  tact- 
ful on  the  lady's  part,  although  such  vanity  is  pardonable, 
under  the  circumstances.  Out  in  Germantown  it  will  be 
asserted,  that  there  was  an  actual  engagement  of 
marriage  between  Miss  Chew  and  Andr6. 

But  General  Howard  will  have  no  patience  for  this  sort 

of  reminiscence.  "He  was  only  a spy!"  he 

will  cry,  brusquely;  "nothing  but  a spy!"  Can 

we  blame  the  husband  ?  Old-time  flames  are  not 
always  agreeable  to  hear  of,  unless  we  have  basked  in  their 
warming  light.  To  Howard  Andr6  was  a  mere  criminal. 

31 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

What  becomes  of  Miss  Peggy  Shippen,  who  was 
so  cruelly  prevented  from  attending  the  Meschianza  ? 
Let  us  change  the  scene  to  London,  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  towards  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century.  An 
American  is  viewing  the  monuments  in  this  wonderful 
old  church.  Among  them  is  the  new  cenotaph  erected, 
by  command  of  King  George,  to  the  memory  of  Andre. 
As  the  visitor  reads  the  inscription  on  it  an  elderly  man, 
and  a  woman  of  under  forty,  approach  the  cenotaph. 
The  man  has  a  soured,  disappointed  expression  on  his 
coarse  features,  although  he  betrays  the  air  of  an 
aggressive,  quarrelsome  fellow  who  perpetually  carries  a 
chip  upon  his  shoulder.  The  woman  has  been  beautiful 
once  upon  a  time — one  glance  at  her  face  shows  that — 
but  now  she  is  old  before  she  should  be,  wan,  tired, 
apathetic.  She  looks  like  one  who  expects  no  more 
gifts  from  Fortune;  she  is  resigned  to  a  life  of  dreariness. 
The  American  starts  as  he  recognizes  the  pair,  and  then 
turns  away  in  a  sort  of  horror.  For  the  man  with  the 
soured  expression  is  none  other  than  Benedict  Arnold. 
The  lady  is  his  wife,  the  once  fascinating  Peggy  Shippen 
of  Philadelphia.  Arnold  has  been  inconstant,  and  a 
traitor,  but  she,  at  least,  has  justified  the  motto  of  "  Un- 
changeable "  which  her  knight  was  to  have  worn  for  her 
in  the  pageant  on  the  banks  of  the  Delaware.  She  has 
never  faltered  in  her  devotion  to  her  husband.  What  a 
change  from  those  happy  Philadelphia  daysl  There  is 
no  pleasure  for  her,  poor  woman,  in  recalling  them, 

32 


MESCHIANZA  —  AND       LOVE  -  MAKING 

for  their  contrast  with  the  present  only  brings  sadness. 
Does  she  ever  picture  the  fateful  hour  when  Washington, 
more  sorrowful  than  angry,  saw  her  in  her  room  at 
West  Point,  after  the  discovery  of  her  husband's  treason  ? 
She  cannot  forget  how,  in  her  madness  of  despair,  she 
raved  and  accused  the  commander-in-chief  of  being  in  a 
plot  to  murder  her  infant  child.  No;  she  forgets 
nothing;  but,  whatever  be  her  memories,  she  will  be 
faithful  to  a  faithless  soldier  until  the  end. 

There  is  another  and  more  cheerful  scene  in  England 
which  serves  as  one  of  the  sequels  to  the  Meschianza. 
It  is  at  Bath,  that  little  world  of  fashion,  in  the  year  1810 
or  thereabouts.  At  the  table  of  a  luxuriously  furnished 
dining-room  sit  a  gray-haired  military-looking  gentle- 
man, a  young  man  (an  American),  and  a  stout,  elderly 
lady  with  fine  black  eyes  and  an  air  of  almost  youthful 
animation.  The  lady,  who  is  evidently  the  hostess, 
seems  to  be  a  person  of  wealth  and  consequence.  Looks 
do  not  belie  her,  for  she  is  the  gifted  and  prosperous 
wife  of  Sir  Henry  Johnson,  a  distinguished  officer  of  the 
British  Army,  who  is  sitting  opposite  to  her  at  the  table. 
She  is  asking  her  visitor,  the  American,  all  manner  of 
lively  questions  about  people  in  Philadelphia.  "How 
are  the  Chews?"  "And  the  Willings?"  "Is  old  Mr. 
Pemberton  still  alive  ?  "  "  And  what  has  become  of  Mrs. 
Bache,  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Franklin  ?  "  There  is  some- 
thing familiar  about  the  flash  of  those  eyes,  and  the  al- 
most sarcastic  smile  that  hovers  around  the  mouth.  The 

33 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

figure  is  plumper  than  of  yore,  but — yes,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  of  it.  Lady  Johnson  is  our  old  friend, 
Rebecca  Franks,  grown  matronly,  and  very  English.  She 
will  always  have  a  tender  feeling  for  America,  however, 
and  will  take  pleasure,  during  the  War  of  1812,  in  the 
victories  of  her  former  countrymen.  "I  am  sorry  I  was 
a  Tory  during  the  Revolution,"  she  will  say.  Yet  she  is 
very  proud  of  a  son  who  has  a  commission  in  the  British 
Army,  and  who  is  destined  to  be  killed  at  the  battle  of 
Waterloo. 

Thus  marry  and  grow  old  most  of  the  maidens  who 
have  graced  the  Meschianza.  Some,  like  Mistress  Ar- 
nold, find  life  dull  tragedy;  others  turn  it  into  comedy, 
and  keep  on  smiling  until  Death  tries  the  latch-string  of 
the  door.  All  vestige  of  the  fete  has  long  since  vanished. 
Upon  the  ground  where  stood  the  Wharton  mansion,  in 
the  vicinity  of  Fifth  Street  and  Washington  Avenue,  the 
city  has  relentlessly  encroached.  The  once  spacious 
lawn  is  traversed  by  built-up  thoroughfares.  All  the 
beauty  which  reigned  there  that  night  has  vanished  as  a 
dream,  and  the  Meschianza  is  but  a  memory  of  the  past. 


34 


PEASANT    AND     PATRICIAN 


e  STanfclanD  /Mansion, 


,noi*flfiA  OnRJrtrtRi* 


:;:          ;;;         ;•;         :: 
'.'-'-          '-;\  §-  .•" 


I! 
PEASANT      AND      PATRICIAN 

TO  the  average  reader  it  may  seem  incompre- 
hensible that  there  should  have  been  anything 
of  romance  or  pleasure,  of  the  Old  World 
type,  in  the  domestic  history  of  colonial  Boston.  We  are 
too  prone  to  look  upon  this  Boston  of  earlier  days  as  a 
place  filled  with  stern  Puritans  who  had  no  passions  or 
human  feeling.  The  town,  so  we  think,  must  have  been 
as  stiff  as  a  newly  starched  ruff.  There  all  the  lights 
were  extinguished  at  a  certain  time;  there  the  people 
walked  in  one  narrow  path;  there  even  love-making  was 
conducted  on  severe,  forbidding  principles.  Yet  if  we 
glance  into  the  by-ways  rather  than  into  the  highways  of 
Boston  life  we  find  more  than  one  bit  of  history  which 
tells  us  that  human  nature  had  her  sway  even  in  that 
stronghold  of  Puritanism,  and  that  there,  as  well  as  in 
more  southern  latitudes,  the  coming  of  spring  sometimes 
made  a  "young  man's  fancy"  lightly  turn  to  thoughts  of 
love.  Let  us  take,  for  example,  the  novel-like  yet  true 
story  of  Sir  Charles  Henry  Frankland,  Baronet,  and  Agnes 
Surriage,  the  humble  but  lovely  maid-of-all-work  in  a 

Massachusetts    inn.      There    is    in    the    mere    truthful 

37 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

details  of  their  devotion,  with  its  crowning  episode  of 
matrimony,  enough  material  for  twenty  works  of  fiction. 

When  Charles  Henry  Frankland,  a  young  man  of 
twenty-four  or  twenty-five,  a  lineal  descendant  of  the 
redoubtable  Oliver  Cromwell,  (and  later  to  inherit  a 
baronetcy)  came  over  from  England  in  1741,  to  accept 
the  lucrative  position  of  Collector  of  the  Port  of  Boston, 
he  became  at  once  a  shining  light  in  the  aristocratic  circle 
composed  of  such  families  as  the  Hutchinsons,  Apthorps, 
and  Bollans,  who  represented  the  influence  of  the  Eng- 
lish government  in  the  Colony  of  Massachusetts  Bay. 
These  patricians,  who  kept  quite  apart,  as  a  rule,  from 
the  hardy  settlers  who  gave  such  a  democratic  tinge  to 
the  budding  life  and  prosperity  of  New  England,  sought 
their  inspiration  from  the  fashionable  air  of  London 
rather  than  from  the  stern,  frugal  manners  of  the  com- 
mon people  of  the  colony.  With  this  official  world,  as  a 
biographer  of  Frankland  has  so  well  pointed  out,1  the 
chief  question  of  the  day  was:  "  How  is  such  and  such 
a  thing  done  at  Court  ?"  They  preserved  the  dress  and 
customs  of  their  relatives  beyond  the  sea,  affected  a 
knowledge  of  literature,  by  reading  the  Spectator  and  the 
works  of  Jonathan  Swift,  and  drove  about  in  their  hand- 
some imported  coaches,  while  the  ancestors  of  certain 
citizens  of  the  town  who  now  rank  as  aristocrats  glanced 
out  upon  them  deferentially  from  neighboring  shops. 

It  may  be  imagined  how  warmly  Frankland  was  wel- 

1  Elias  Nason. 
38 


PEASANT     AND     PATRICIAN 

corned  by  this  high-born  coterie.  Rich,  good-looking, 
debonair,  with  a  taste  for  the  arts  and  amenities  of  life, 
and  with  manners  as  elegant  as  those  of  the  famous  Lord 
Chesterfield,  he  quickly  won  his  way  into  their  hearts. 
Fathers  were  glad  to  claim  intimacy  with  him;  fond 
mammas  rejoiced  that  he  was  a  bachelor;  daughters  re- 
garded him  with  a  pretty  display  of  maidenly  bashful- 
ness.  The  latter  declared  that  his  face  was  entrancingly 
pensive,  even  melancholy,  and  that  he  was  positively  de- 
lightful when  he  arrayed  himself  in  a  golden-laced  coat, 
flowered  vest,  ruffled  sleeves  and  silken  breeches,  with  a 
three-cornered  hat,  powdered  wig,  and  a  sword  to  set 
off  the  full  effect  of  the  costume.  Their  brothers,  who 
longed  to  be  men  about  town,  like  the  dandies  who 
paraded  through  the  "Mall"  in  London,  vowed  that 
Frankland  could  drink  his  wine  as  briskly  as  any  subject 
in  the  Kingdom,  and  yet  never  feel  the  least  harm  from 
his  potations.  Little  did  they  know  that  he  used  for  a 
drinking-cup  a  vessel  so  thickly  lined  inside  that  he  only 
consumed  half  as  much  Madeira  or  Canary  as  any  one  of 
his  boon  companions. 

In  fine,  the  new  Collector  of  the  Port  of  Boston  was 
regarded  as  a  veritable  Prince  Charming,  and  many  were 
the  heart-burnings  which  he  caused.  Would  he  eventu- 
ally return  to  England  a  confirmed  bachelor,  or  would  he 
wed  some  fair  maiden  who  rode  proudly  through  the 
crooked  lanes  of  Boston  ?  That  was  the  question  which 
nearly  all  the  members  of  the  official  set  constantly  asked 

39 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

of  themselves.  Meanwhile  Frankland  was  living  in 
princely  style.  He  would,  in  time,  purchase  an  elaborate 
brick  mansion  at  what  afterwards  became  the  corner  of 
Garden  Court  and  Prince  Street  (the  very  house  which 
James  Fenimore  Cooper  has  used  for  a  description  in  one 
of  his  novels)  besides  laying  out  for  himself  a  costly 
plantation  at  Hopkinton.  That  brick  mansion,  which  has 
long  since  gone  the  way  of  other  historic  dwellings, 
would  be  considered  handsome  even  in  these  latter  days 
of  lavish  architecture.  It  afforded  generous  entertain- 
ment to  a  long  list  of  distinguished  guests  whose  names 
are  now  forgotten. 

At  last  the  gay  bachelor  was  to  meet  his  fate,  albeit  in 
a  very  lowly  guise.  He  was  called,  one  day,  upon  an 
official  visit  to  the  town  of  Marblehead,  and  here  put  up, 
no  doubt  in  much  pomp  and  state,  at  the  village  inn. 
While  sitting  in  the  public  room  he  noticed,  only  in  a 
vague  way,  as  befitted  so  great  a  personage,  that  a  girl, 
scarcely  more  than  a  child,  was  engaged  in  the  not  over- 
lofty  occupation  of  scrubbing  the  floor.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  sight  worthy  of  a  second  thought.  But  in 
a  moment  the  girl  lifted  her  head,  and  what  a  change! 
We  can  readily  fancy  Frankland  giving  vent  to  some  old- 
fashioned  exclamation  like  "Zounds!"  or  "Oddsbod- 
kins!"  To  look  at  that  face  was  to  forget  all  else. 
Wavy  black  hair,  great  dark  eyes,  pretty  features,  a 
superb  complexion,  and  a  sweet,  refined  expression! 
These  were  not  the  customary  charms  of  a  scrub-girl. 

40 


PEASANT      AND      PATRICIAN 

The  future  baronet  gasped  in  astonishment.  Finally  he 
called  the  child  to  him,  and  she  came,  neither  boldly  nor 
at  all  embarrassed.  He  saw  that  she  was  about  sixteen 
years  old,  but  slight  and  delicately  built.  He  spoke  to 
her,  and  she  answered  in  a  melodious,  flute-like  voice 
that  reminded  him  of  the  song  of  a  bird.  The  Collector 
grew  more  and  more  interested.  When  he  addressed 
some  remark  to  her  in  a  tone  of  badinage  he  found  her 
quite  as  witty  as  she  was  beautiful.  Yet  she  was  only 
the  daughter  of  two  humble  folk  of  Marblehead;  her 
dress  was  worn  and  scanty  and  she  wore  neither  shoes 
nor  stockings. 

"  Here's  a  crown  for  a  pair  of  shoes,"  he  said  at  last, 
handing  her  a  coin.  The  girl,  whose  name  was  Agnes 
Surriage,  took  it  as  any  other  scrubbing-wench  might 
have  done,  but  with  courteous  thanks,  and  went  away. 
Frankland  was  soon  back  in  Boston,  where,  we  may  be 
sure,  he  told  his  friends  of  the  wonderful  creature  he  had 
seen  at  the  Marblehead  inn.  Then  he  straightway  pro- 
ceeded to  forget  her. 

Later  on  Frankland  chanced  to  make  another  visit  to 
Marblehead.  There,  in  the  inn  once  more,  was  Agnes 
Surriage,  still  scrubbing  away,  and  still  as  lovely  as  ever. 
But  she  was  barefooted  as  before. 

"  Have  you  not  bought  shoes  with  the  crown  I  gave 
you  ?  "  asked  the  Collector. 

"I  have  indeed,  sir,"  replied  the  girl  simply,   "but  I 

keep  the  shoes  to  wear  to  meeting,  may  it  please  you." 

41 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

Never,  thought  Frankland,  had  a  reply  been  made  with 
such  charming  grace.  He  was  captivated,  then  and  there, 
by  the  girl.  He  vowed  that  one  who  possessed  such  a 
face  and  bearing  should  never  more  waste  her  sweetness 
on  the  desert  air  of  Marblehead.  So  he  sought  her  par- 
ents, and  obtained  from  them  permission  to  send  her  to 
Boston  to  be  educated. 

Agnes,  nothing  loath,  was  soon  domiciled  with  a 
family  in  Boston.  There  she  received  the  best  training 
that  the  town  could  afford.  As  the  aforesaid  training  in- 
cluded, in  addition  to  the  "  Three  R's,"  such  abstruse  and 
varied  sciences  as  music,  grammar,  dancing  and  embroid- 
ery, we  may  infer  that  the  intellectual  preeminence  of 
the  city  had  already  begun.  Under  the  influence  of 
such  an  array  of  learning  the  girl  blossomed  into  radiant 
womanhood,  with  graces  that  would  have  done  credit  to 
a  duchess,  and  a  half-dark,  half-rosy  beauty  of  which  few 
duchesses  could  boast.  People  marveled  at  the  distinc- 
tion of  one  who  had  been  brought  up  to  scrub  the  floors 
of  an  inn.  Perhaps,  after  all,  there  flowed  blue  blood  in 
the  veins  of  Agnes  Surriage.  Could  we  take  a  genealog- 
ical microscope,  and  examine  far  back  into  the  family 
tree  of  the  Surriages,  we  might  find  some  wicked  Plan- 
tagenet,  a  stray  marquis,  or  a  gay  duke,  concealed  in  the 
trunk. 

There  was  one  person  who  watched  the  development 
of  this  flower  from  Marblehead  first  with  interest,  then 
with  wonder,  and  at  last,  with  deepest  love.  The  proud 

42 


PEASANT     AND     PATRICIAN 

scion  of  one  of  the  noblest  families  in  the  north  of  Eng- 
land one  day  woke  up  to  find  that  he  had  lost  his  heart 
to  the  ex-servant.  He  quite  forgot  her  former  badge  of 
servitude  when  he  looked  into  her  great  eyes,  or  watched 
the  piquant  play  of  her  features,  or  listened  to  the  tones 
of  her  thrush-like  voice.  He  only  knew  that  he  loved 
her  as  he  had  never  loved  any  of  the  great  belles  of  his 
acquaintance.  Then  he  told  her  so,  quite  as  humbly  as 
if  he  had  been  paying  court  to  a  sovereign. 

How  felt  Agnes  Surriage  ?  She  returned  that  love  with 
all  the  devotion  of  her  ardent  nature.  She  no  longer 
looked  upon  Charles  Henry  Frankland  as  a  benefactor; 
she  now  regarded  him  as  her  lover.  And  as  her  future 
husband  ?  Who  shall  answer  that  question  ?  For  a  time 
her  romance  suggests 

"  The  old,  old  story — fair  and  young, 
And  fond — and  not  too  wise, — 
That  matrons  tell  with  sharpened  tongue." 

When  Agnes  went  to  church  of  a  Sunday  in  King's 
Chapel,  looking  a  picture  of  loveliness  in  a  gown  lately 
brought  over  from  London,  the  ladies  of  the  fashionable 
set  cast  upon  her  curious  glances,  wherein  scorn  and 
grudging  admiration  had  equal  combination.  She,  re- 
gardless of  the  attention  she  was  attracting,  listened 
patiently  to  the  sermon  of  the  English  divine,  or  else 
prayed  earnestly.  And,  sinner  though  she  might  be,  her 
prayers  were  more  heartfelt,  perhaps,  and  more  heeded, 
than  those  of  the  virtuous  ladies  who  could  scarce  stifle 

43 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

their  yawns  until  service  should  be  over.  Then,  when 
church  was  out,  what  a  staring  at  Miss  Surriage  as  she 
passed  out  into  the  street! 

Thus  life  went  on  as  the  two  lovers  read  together 
Steele,  and  Richardson,  Swift,  Addison  and  Pope,  or 
cultivated  flowers,  and  enjoyed  the  music  in  which  they 
both  were  so  proficient.  At  last  we  find  that  Sir  Charles 
Henry  Frankland  has  resigned  his  position  as  Collector  of 
the  Port  of  Boston,  and  returned  to  England.  Through 
the  death  of  an  uncle  he  has  now  become  a  baronet. 
Next  he  is  living  in  Lisbon,  Portugal,  which,  notwith- 
standing its  churches  and  its  fondness  for  ecclesiastical 
pomp,  is  one  of  the  most  corrupt  cities  on  the  face  of  the 
globe.  There,  too,  is  the  constant  Agnes.  She  is  glad 
to  get  away  from  England,  where  she  was  coldly  re- 
ceived. 

It  is  the  first  day  of  November,  1755 — a  date  long  to 
be  remembered  in  the  annals  of  all  that  is  horrible  in  his- 
tory. But  there  is  nothing  ominous  in  the  sun  which  is 
shining  this  morning  over  the  hills  of  the  city,  gilding 
the  spires,  and  domes  and  housetops,  and  touching  softly 
the  sails  of  the  boats  on  the  lazy  waters  of  the  river 
Tagus.  The  streets  are  filled  with  crowds  of  people  on 
their  way  to  mass.  For  it  is  All  Saints'  Day,  one  of 
the  most  elaborate  festivals,  as  kept  by  the  Portuguese, 
in  the  calendar  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  Already 
the  bells  have  ceased  to  ring;  the  hurrying  worshipers 

are  kneeling  in  their  respective  temples;  the  priests  are 

44 


PEASANT     AND     PATRICIAN 

reciting  the  Latin  of  the  mass.  Suddenly  an  awful  sound 
is  heard.  It  is  not  exactly  a  roar,  but  a  sickening,  crack- 
ing sound.  People  rush  screaming  out  of  the  churches 
only  to  find  that  the  sun  is  darkened  and  that  buildings 
are  tumbling  down  in  every  direction.  The  earth  is 
quaking,  as  if  at  any  moment  the  whole  city  might  be 
swallowed  up  in  her  bowels;  men  are  flying  here,  there, 
anywhere,  their  faces  blanched,  their  minds  distraught, 
crazed;  and  the  streets  are  soon  filled  with  the  dead  or 
the  dying  who  have  been  crushed  beneath  falling  walls. 
For  twenty  minutes  the  earth  continues  to  tremble,  as 
"the  waters  of  the  Tagus  roll  into  the  sea,  leaving  ves- 
sels on  the  naked  ground,  and  then  come  foaming,  rush- 
ing back,"  and  sweep  a  crowd  of  frantic  people  on  the 
new  marble  quay  to  swift  destruction.  The  loss  of  life 
and  property  is  terrific.  So  violent  are  the  shocks  of 
earthquake  on  that  fatal  Saturday  that  the  splendid  palace 
of  the  King,  the  Custom  House,  India  House,  new  opera 
houses,  as  many  as  thirty  churches,  and  almost  all  the 
stores  and  dwelling-houses,  are  in  ruins,  and  nearly  thirty 
thousand  people  are  crushed  and  killed  beneath  them. 
"As  if  to  add  to  the  horror  of  this  dreadful  scene  the 
prisoners  are  let  loose,  and  then  incendiary  fires  spring 
up  on  every  hand."  Fortunately  for  the  King  of  Portu- 
gal and  his  court,  they  are  at  Belem,  just  without  the  city, 
at  the  time  when  the  catastrophe  occurs. 

On  this  very  morning  Frankland  has  driven  out  in  com- 
pany with  a  gay  lady  residing  in  the  city.     The  two  are 

45 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

decked  in  their  best,  for  they  are  on  their  way  to  the 
Cathedral.  As  they  bowl  along  they  chat  merrily ;  life  is 
bright;  the  future  seems  secure.  At  the  moment  that 
the  terrific  earthquake  begins,  about  half-past  ten  o'clock, 
the  baronet  is  passing  the  house  of  one  Francesco  de 
Ribeiro.  Suddenly  he  feels  as  if  he  is  the  victim  of  a 
hideous  nightmare:  the  earth  is  heaving  under  him  like 
the  waves  of  old  ocean;  walls  begin  to  tremble  and  fall, 
and  people  to  shriek  out  in  agony.  Another  minute,  and 
the  house  of  Ribeiro  has  enveloped  him,  his  driving  com- 
panion, the  horses  and  the  carriage  in  its  ruins.  The 
lady,  in  her  awful  pain  and  fear,  bites  through  the  sleeve 
of  his  broadcloth  coat  and  tears  a  piece  out  of  his  arm. 
The  horses  are  soon  dead;  their  almost  human  groans 
are  stifled  forever.  There  lie  the  two  occupants  of  the 
carriage,  who  were  so  full  of  merriment  but  a  second  be- 
fore. Will  help  never  come?  Frankland,  lying  there 
prostrate,  bleeding,  prays  to  the  Almighty  for  mercy,  as 
his  sins,  of  which  there  are  not  a  few,  come  crowding  into 
his  memory  like  so  many  evil,  haunting  spirits.  He 
"  makes  a  solemn  vow  to  God,  that  if  He  will  show  him 
pity,  to  lead  henceforth  a  better  life,  and  especially  to 
atone  for  wrongs  done  to  Agnes  Surriage."  It  is  one  of 
those  soul-stirring  moments  vouchsafed  to  few  men  who 
live  to  tell  the  story. 

And  where  is  the  faithful  Agnes  Surriage,  whose  honor 
the  stricken  baronet  has  sworn  to  redeem  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  ?  She,  too,  is  in  Lisbon,  whither  she  has  gone 

46 


PEASANT     AND     PATRICIAN 

out  of  love  for  the  man  who  rescued  her  from  the  life  of 
a  scrubbing  wench  in  a  mean  New  England  inn.  When 
the  city  is  convulsed  by  this  upheaval  her  one  thought  is 
for  Frankland.  Regardless  of  danger,  oblivious  of  her 
own  safety,  she  runs  through  the  ghastly  streets,  strewn 
with  dead  or  dying,  and  comes  by  sheer  good  fortune, 
(or  is  it  love  that  leads  the  way  ?)  in  front  of  the  fallen 
house  of  Francesco  de  Ribeiro.  Here  she  recognizes  the 
hoarse  voice  of  her  lover  calling  for  help.  Here,  too,  she 
hears  the  fainter  voice  of  his  companion.  Some  Portu- 
guese workmen,  uninjured  by  the  havoc  around  them, 
are  lingering  in  the  neighborhood,  with  true  Southern 
aimlessness.  "Save  Sir  Charles  Frankland,"  Agnes  cries 
loudly  in  anguish,  in  a  voice  which  for  once  has  lost  its 
customary  sweetness,  "  and  a  great  reward  in  gold  shall 
be  yours!" 

The  men,  spurred  on  by  the  hope  of  reward,  strain 
every  nerve  to  rescue  the  two  from  the  debris.  Agnes, 
fearful,  yet  as  calm  as  in  the  days  when  she  first  saw  her 
lover  at  Marblehead  across  the  sea,  encourages  them  by 
word  and  gesture  until,  after  an  hour's  work,  they  bring 
forth  the  baronet  and  the  lady.  The  two  are  alive,  and  not 
seriously  hurt,  though  covered  with  the  stones  and  dusty 
mortar  of  Ribeiro's  stricken  house.  Never  has  Agnes, 
pale  though  she  is,  looked  handsomer  than  at  this  instant. 
An  artist  might  well  paint  the  look  which  she  fastens 
upon  Frankland,  as  the  bleeding  aristocrat  is  dragged  into 
the  light  of  day.  There  is  a  look  no  less  full  of  meaning  on 

47 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

his  face  also.  For,  in  spite  of  all  things,  their  love  for  each 
other  is  as  great  as  in  the  old  days  in  Boston.  When  he 
is  taken  away,  that  he  may  have  his  wounds  dressed, 
Frankland  does  not  forget  the  vow  he  has  made  less 
than  two  hours  before. 

A  few  days  later  he  writes  in  his  diary — a  diary,  be  it 
noted,  that  is  still  in  existence — "  I  hope  my  providen- 
tial escape  will  have  a  lasting  good  effect  upon  my 
mind.  We  should  endeavor  to  pacify  the  Divine 
wrath  by  sorrow  for  past  neglects,  and  a  future 
conscientious  discharge  of  our  duty  to  God  and  our 
country."  And,  with  that  laudable  ambition  in  view, 
Sir  Charles  Henry  is  married  to  Agnes  Surriage  by  a  priest 
of  the  Roman  church.  Then  he  embarks  with  his  bride 
for  England,  and  to  make  the  marriage  bonds  more  bind- 
ing if  possible,  he  has  the  ceremony  performed  on  board 
ship  by  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England.  When  he 
arrives  in  his  own  country  the  members  of  his  family  and 
the  noble  circle  in  which  they  move  salute  the  new  Lady 
Frankland  as  the  embodiment  of  all  the  graces.  She 
comes  now  as  a  wife,  and  they  forget  the  past.  The 
Franklands,  the  Pelhams,  the  Pitts,  the  Walpoles  and  the 
rest  rave  over  the  beauty  and  the  accomplishments,  the 
sweet  disposition  and  the  wonderful  voice  of  the  ex- 
domestic.  If  they  do  not  condemn  her  spelling  (which 
was  somewhat  shaky  until  the  last  day  of  her  life)  it  is 
because  even  the  greatest  men  of  the  eighteenth  century 
were  not  adepts  in  the  genteel  art  of  putting  the  right 

48 


PEASANT     AND     PATRICIAN 

letter  in  the  right  place.  Spelling  was,  more  or  less,  a  mat- 
ter of  taste  rather  than  of  rule.  As  for  Agnes — well,  she 
is  now  Lady  Frankland,  and  happier  than  she  ever  was 
before.  One  of  the  prayers  which  she  was  wont  to  offer 
in  the  King's  chapel,  far  away  in  Boston,  has  been 
answered. 

After  another  trip  to  Lisbon  the  Franklands  find  them- 
selves once  more  in  Boston.  Agnes  is  no  longer  looked 
upon  with  contemptuous  eyes;  the  very  women  who 
once  treated  her  so  scornfully  now  rush  to  pay  her 
their  homage.  But  she,  taking  the  world  as  it  comes,  goes 
on  being  as  attractive  as  of  old  without  pride  or  ostenta- 
tion, and  proves  quite  as  friendly  to  her  humble  relatives, 
the  Surriages,  as  she  is  to  her  guests  in  velvet  and  silken 
attire.  When  her  brother,  Isaac  Surriage,  a  plain  sea- 
man, stops  in  at  the  Franklands'  magnificent  residence  in 
Bell  Alley,  he  is  always  sure  of  a  hearty  welcome.  Per- 
haps it  is  because  he  has  the  tact  to  time  his  visits  so  that 
he  will  not  annoy  any  of  the  official  set.  We  may  be 
sure,  however,  that  the  dandies  and  fine  ladies  of  Boston 
are  quite  ready  to  stamp  as  "charming"  any  kinsman  of 
Lady  Frankland.  What  might  once  have  been  accounted 
want  of  breeding  in  Isaac  Surriage  is  now  nothing  more 
than  the  most  delightful  eccentricity.  Thus  can  we 
color  our  opinions  of  men  and  things  to  suit  our  mood, 
or  our  interest. 

The  years  roll  on  prosperously.  The  happy  couple 
pay  another  visit  to  Portugal;  then  they  come  back  to 

49 


ROMANCES  OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

Boston,  and  at  last  (1764)  they  settle  in  Bath,  England. 
Here  Sir  Charles  Henry,  who  now  considers  himself  old 
and  sedate,  tries  to  bring  back  declining  health  by  a 
plentiful  consumption  of  the  celebrated  waters  of  the 
great  spa.  ' '  I  endeavor  to  keep  myself  calm  and  sedate, " 
reads  an  entry  in  his  diary  at  this  time.  "I  live  modestly 
and  avoid  ostentation,  decently  and  not  above  my  con- 
dition, and  do  not  entertain  a  number  of  parasites  who 
forget  favors  the  moment  they  depart  from  my 
table." 

Nowadays  a  man  who  has  not  passed  the  fifty-year 
post  on  time's  turnpike  usually  considers  himself  to  be 
comparatively  young;  but  in  the  eighteenth  century  men 
lived  harder,  and  abused  their  digestions  more  than  they 
do  now,  so  that  they  often  became  prematurely  old. 
English  prigs  of  twenty,  who  frequented  Drury  Lane 
Theatre  to  ogle  the  occupants  of  the  boxes,  or  to  shout 
out  "  Egad,  I  call  this  a  bad  play,"  were  more  blase  than 
the  average  modern  Englishman  of  three  times  that  age. 
Frankland  is  hardly  an  example  of  such  precocity.  But 
he  had  enjoyed  life,  not  forgetting  the  good  things  of  the 
table,  and  was  now  receiving  earthly  punishment  there- 
for in  the  shape  of  the  gout,  that  melancholy  visitor  who 
always  causes  us  to  view  the  world  through  dull,  blue 
glasses.  The  gout  conquered  him  in  due  time,  for  he 
died  early  in  the  year  1768.  Agnes,  who  had  loved  and 
faithfully  tended  him  so  long  as  life  lasted,  buried  him  in 
a  village  near  Bath  and  placed  upon  his  tombstone  a 

50 


PEASANT     AND     PATRICIAN 

quaint  inscription.  Then  she  quietly  went  back  to  her 
old  home  in  New  England,  there  to  live  in  much  mag- 
nificence at  Hopkinton,  the  country  estate  of  the  deceased 
baronet.  It  was  a  home  fit  for  the  finest  lady  in  England. 
Upon  the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution,  in  1775,  the 
friends  of  American  liberty  began  to  look  upon  Lady 
Frankland  with  suspicion.  Though  not  an  aristocrat  by 
birth,  she  was  at  least  one  by  marriage;  her  friends  were, 
for  the  most  part,  staunch  Tories,  and  her  sympathies,  no 
doubt,  were  running  in  the  same  direction.  It  is  certain 
that  she  fast  became  unpopular,  and  that  she  determined 
to  seek  a  refuge  in  England,  with  the  family  of  her  dead 
husband.  So  she  applied  to  the  Committee  of  Safety, 
while  she  was  still  residing  at  Hopkinton,  for  permission 
to  enter  Boston,  now  held  by  the  British  troops,  that  she 
might  sail  from  there  for  her  future  home.  The  request 
was  granted,  with  leave  to  pass  into  the  beleaguered  town 
with  six  trunks,  three  beds,  one  "small  keg  of  pickled 
tongues,"  two  pigs  (why,  oh  why,  should  a  heroine  of 
romance  travel  with  two  pigs?)  a  quantity  of  boxes, 
and  other  "  necessaries."  But  on  her  way  from  Hopkin- 
ton her  carriage  was  stopped  by  armed  militiamen,  and 
she  was  held  in  custody  as  a  suspicious  character,  dan- 
gerous to  the  American  cause!  Her  beauty,  much  of 
which  she  still  retained,  was  no  avail  against  the  stern 
mandate  of  these  patriots.  The  influence  of  Lady  Frank- 
land  in  the  country  of  her  birth  had  departed.  Mars, 
not  Cupid,  was  now  king.  The  Continental  Congress, 

51 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

however,  more  gallant  and  less  suspicious  than  the  mili- 
tiamen, overruled  the  action  of  the  latter,  and  sent  the 
lady  into  Boston,  almost  in  triumph,  under  the  protection 
of  a  guard  of  six  soldiers,  in  company  with  the  six 
trunks  (no  doubt  crammed  with  London  finery),  the 
three  beds,  the  pickled  tongues,  the  prosaic  pigs,  and  the 
other  "necessaries."  At  once  the  British  officers,  among 
them  John  Burgoyne,  who  was  to  prove  to  the  world 
that  a  successful  playwright  may  make  an  incompetent 
general,  paid  their  court  to  the  newcomer.  In  spite  of 
her  fifty  odd  years,  thought  these  gentlemen,  Lady 
Frankland  was  as  fascinating  as  many  an  English  woman 
but  half  her  age.  Here  was  one  fair  American,  at  least, 
whom  they  could  admire  and  treat  without  that  boorish- 
ness  which  sometimes  accompanied  their  manners,  or 
the  want  thereof,  on  this  side  of  the  water. 

In  the  course  of  this  pleasurable  experience  occurred 
the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  which  first  showed  to  the  as- 
tonished Britons  that  Americans  were  not  a  rabble  of 
cowards.  Lady  Frankland  watched  the  engagement 
from  the  roof  of  her  old  house  in  Bell  Alley,  and,  when 
all  was  over,  assisted  in  caring  for  the  wounded  sol- 
diers who  were  brought  into  the  town.  Surely  that  kind 
heart  of  hers  must  have  bled,  even  though  she  made  no 
sign,  for  her  own  countrymen  who  had  fought  so 
stoutly  against  the  well-trained  British  regulars.  Soon 
after  the  battle  she  took  ship  for  England.  She  was 

never  more  to  see  the  New  World. 

63 


PEASANT     AND     PATRICIAN 

It  might  have  been  supposed  that  the  widow  would 
put  an  appropriate  close  to  the  romance  of  her  life  by 
dying  with  the  name  of  Charles  Henry  Frankland  upon 
her  lips.  Perhaps  she  did,  for  she  had  loved  him  with  a 
love  seldom  seen  outside  of  the  old-fashioned  three- 
volume  novel.  But  my  Lady  so  far  forgot  the  proprie- 
ties and  rules  laid  down  by  authors  of  fiction  as  to  wed, 
when  she  was  on  the  verge  of  sixty,  a  certain  wealthy 
English  banker,  one  John  Drew.  Her  second  season  of 
married  life  was  short,  however,  for  her  death  occurred 
the  following  year  (1783).  But  Lady  Frankland's  de- 
voted love  will  never  be  forgotten.  So  long  as  Ameri- 
cans take  interest  in  pictures  of  the  past — and  let  us  hope 
that  such  interest  will  only  increase  as  the  years  roll  on 
— the  memory  of  Agnes  Surriage,  Lady  Frankland,  will 
endure.  She  will  ever  make  a  very  human  figure 
against  the  prim  background  of  New  England  colonial 
life. 

The  manorial  house  at  Hopkinton  was  destroyed  by 
fire  many  years  ago,  but  as  long  as  it  stood,  a  mute  il- 
lustration of  the  story  of  the  Franklands,  visitors  were 
shown  a  certain  room  which  was  regarded  in  the  neigh- 
borhood with  a  particular  reverence.  Here,  says  the 
legend,  Sir  Charles  Henry  shut  himself  up  on  more  than 
one  All  Saints'  Day,  the  anniversary  of  the  Lisbon  earth- 
quake, to  spend  the  long  hours  behind  closed  shutters,  in 
prayer  and  penitential  fasting.  Then  he  returned  to  his 
wife.  To  him  she  always  continued  as  young  as  she 

53 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

was  on  the  morning  when  he  first  saw  her  scrubbing 
floors  in  the  Marblehead  inn.  A  right  noble  gentleman 
was  Sir  Charles  Henry  Frankland.  We  may  forgive  him 
his  sins  for  the  good  that  was  in  the  man. 


WAR    AND     FLIRTATION 


18  sauo*  sdliio* 


Ill 

WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

IF  the  historian  desires  to  get  a  graphic  idea  of  the 
lives  of  our  ancestors,  and  would  find  out  that 
those  worthies  were  quite  like  other  human  beings 
who  dwell  in  a  more  modern  atmosphere,  let  him  dip 
into  the  diaries  which  some  of  them  have  left  behind  as 
attractive  relics  of  the  past.     It  is  from  such  unambitious 
memorials  that  we  obtain  many  a  social  fact,  many  a 
picturesque  incident,  which  we  would  look  for  in  vain 
in  the  pages  of  a  Bancroft.     It  is  the  very  unpretentious- 
ness  of  these  yellow-leaved  records  that  charms  us. 

Nothing  of  this  kind  is  better  in  its  way  than  the  diary 
of  Sally  Wister,  a  Quaker  maiden  of  Philadelphia,  wherein 
the  Revolutionary  characters  she  introduces  seem  to  be 
breathing,  sentient  creatures,  and  wherein,  too,  we  have 
a  glimmer  of  romance  which  nowadays  would  be  de- 
scribed as  flirtation.  Miss  Wister,  who  was  the  eldest 
daughter  of  Daniel  Wister,  was  a  vivacious  girl  of  six- 
teen, sparkling  with  health  and  spirits,  at  the  time  that 
this  diary  was  begun.  She  had  just  moved  with  her  fam- 
ily from  Philadelphia  to  Penllyn,  Montgomery  County, 
when  it  became  evident,  after  the  battle  of  the  Brandy- 

57 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

wine,  that  the  British  would  occupy  the  Quaker  City. 
At  this  interesting  period  Miss  Sally  resided  on  the 
Foulke  estate,  a  portion  of  which  still  remains  on  one 
side  of  the  North  Pennsylvania  Railroad,  near  Penllyn 
station.  The  whole  neighborhood  is  filled  with  memories 
of  the  Revolution.  If  we  wander  along  the  old  Morris 
Road,  or  loiter  on  the  banks  of  the  upper  Wissahickon 
with  Miss  Sally's  diary  in  hand,  we  almost  expect  to  see 
the  writer  herself  appear  until  we  hear  the  rumbling  of  a 
train  or  the  screech  of  a  locomotive,  when  we  realize  that 
we  are  living  in  the  twentieth  century. 

Miss  Wister  was  at  a  very  naive,  impressionable  age, 
and  her  heart  was  thrilled  by  the  excitement  into  which 
the  whole  country  surrounding  Philadelphia  was  thrown 
by  the  manreuvring  of  British  and  American  troops. 
What  better  way  to  ease  her  feelings,  therefore,  than  to 
keep  a  journal  ?  Miss  Sally  had  a  dear  friend,  Deborah 
Norris  (afterwards  the  wife  of  Dr.  George  Logan,  of 
Stenton),  and,  as  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  send  a 
letter  to  Miss  Deborah,  then  in  Philadelphia,  Sally  re- 
solved to  record  the  passing  events  of  each  day  on  paper, 
with  the  hope  that  some  time  later  her  friend  might  derive 
pleasure  from  their  perusal.  Under  date  of  September 
26,  1777,  she  writes: 

"About  twelve  o'clock  Cousin  Jesse  [Foulke]  heard 
that  General  Howe's  army  had  moved  down  towards 
Philadelphia.  Then,  my  dear,  our  hopes  and  fears  were 
engaged  for  thee.  However,  my  advice  is,  summon  all 

68 


WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

thy  resolution,  call  Fortitude  to  thy  aid,  don't  suffer  thy 
spirits  to  sink,  my  dear;  there's  nothing  like  courage; 
'tis  what  I  stand  in  need  of  myself,  but  unfortunately 
have  little  of  it  in  my  composition.  I  was  standing  in 
the  kitchen  about  twelve,  when  somebody  came  to  me 
in  a  hurry  screaming,  '  Sally,  Sally,  here  are  the  light 
horse!'  This  was  by  far  the  greatest  fright  I  had  en- 
dured; fear  tack'd  wings  to  my  feet;  1  was  at  the  house 
in  a  moment;  at  the  porch  I  stopped,  and  it  really  was 
the  light  horse.  I  ran  immediately  to  the  western  door, 
where  the  family  were  assembled,  anxiously  waiting  for 
the  event.  They  rode  up  to  the  door  and  halted,  and 
enquired  if  we  had  horses  to  sell;  but  were  answered 
negatively.  '  Have  not  you  sir,'  to  my  father,  '  two  black 
horses?'  'Yes,  but  have  no  mind  to  dispose  of  them.' 
My  terror  had  by  this  time  nearly  subsided.  The  officer 
and  men  behaved  perfectly  civil;  the  first  drank  two 
glasses  of  wine,  rode  away,  bidding  his  men  to  follow, 
which,  after  adieus  in  number,  they  did." 

Almost  as  Miss  Sally  was  writing  these  lines  the 
British  were  taking  possession  of  Philadelphia.  From 
now  onward  the  Foulke  mansion  became  a  stopping- 
place  for  American  officers,  many  of  whom  were  only 
too  glad  to  chat  with  the  pretty  chronicler  and  to  admire 
her  coy  ways  and  attractive  little  impertinences.  The 
young  lady  herself  had  a  keen  eye  for  the  good  points  of 
the  soldiers.  As  she  sits  down  in  the  evening,  to  make 
an  entry  in  the  all  important  journal,  we  fancy  that  she 

59 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

blushes  over  the  thought  of  some  compliment  or  tender 
word  of  which  she  has  been  the  object  during  the  day. 
When  General  Smallwood  and  the  officers  of  his  staff 
took  up  quarters  in  the  house  there  was  great  excitement, 
and  not  a  little  fluttering  of  the  heart,  on  the  part  both  of 
Miss  Sally  and  her  cousin,  Lydia  Foulke.  To  be  under 
the  same  roof  with  so  many  interesting  men,  some  of 
them  eligible  bachelors,  was  " prodigious  good  fun!" 

"The  General,"  wrote  Sally,  '•  is  tall,  portly,  well 
made:  a  truly  martial  air,  the  behavior  and  manner  of  a 
gentleman,  a  good  understanding  and  great  humanity  of 
disposition,  constitute  the  character  of  Smallwood. 
Colonel  Wood,  [subsequently  Governor  of  Virginia]  from 
what  we  hear  of  him,  and  what  we  see  is  one  of  the 
most  amiable  of  men.  .  .  .  Colonel  Line  is  not 
married,  so  let  me  not  be  too  warm  in  his  praise,  lest  thee 
suspect.  He  is  monstrous  tall  and  brown,  but  has  a  cer- 
tain something  in  his  face  and  conversation  very  agree- 
able; he  entertains  the  highest  notions  of  honor,  is 
sensible  and  humane,  and  a  brave  officer.  He  is  only 
seven-and-twenty  years  old,  but,  by  a  long  indisposition 
and  constant  fatigue,  looks  vastly  older,  and  almost  worn 
to  a  skeleton,  but  very  lively  and  talkative.  Captain 
Furnival — 1  need  not  say  more  of  him  than  that  he  has, 
excepting  one  or  two,  the  handsomest  face  I  ever  saw,  a 
very  fine  person ;  fine  light  hair,  and  a  great  deal  of  it, 
adds  to  the  beauty  of  his  face.  Well,  here  comes  the 
glory,  the  Major, — [Major  Stoddert,  of  Maryland,  after- 

60 


WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

wards  Secretary  of  the  Navy]  so  bashful,  so  famous,  etc. ; 
he  should  come  before  the  Captain,  but  never  mind.  I 
at  first  thought  the  Major  cross  and  proud,  but  I  was 
mistaken;  he  is  about  nineteen,  nephew  to  the  Gen- 
eral. .  .  .  Captain  Finley  is  wretched  ugly,  but  he 
went  away  last  night,  so  I  shall  not  particularize 
him.  .  .  .  Colonels  Wood  and  Line  and  [Dr.]  Gould 
dined  with  us.  I  was  dressed  in  my  chintz,  and  looked 
smarter  than  night  before." 

A  true  feminine  touch,  Miss  Sally,  is  in  that  last 
sentence.  We  can  fancy  you  sitting  up  very  straight  at 
the  dinner-table,  as  you  pretend  to  serene  unconscious- 
ness of  the  admiring  glances  that  are  being  showered 
upon  you  in  that  chintz  dress. 

It  is  not  long  before  Major  Stoddert  recovers  from  his 
bashfulness,  and  is  getting  on  famously  with  the  demure 
young  woman.  It  is  plain,  too,  that  she  thinks  him  a 
sort  of  paragon.  "I  must  tell  thee,"  she  confides  to 
Miss  Deborah  Norris,  under  a  date  in  October,  "to-day 
arrived  Colonel  Guest  [probably  Mordecai  Gist],  and 
Major  Leatherberry,  the  former  a  smart  widower;  the 
latter  a  lawyer,  a  sensible  young  fellow,  and  will  never 
swing  for  want  of  tongue.  Dr.  Diggs  came  second  day ; 
a  mighty  disagreeable  man.  We  were  obliged  to  ask 
him  to  tea.  He  must  needs  pop  himself  between  the 
Major  and  me,  for  which  I  did  not  thank  him.  After  I 
had  drank  tea,  I  jumped  from  the  table,  and  seated  my- 
self at  the  fire.  The  Major  followed  my  example,  drew 

61 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

his  chair  close  to  mine  and  entertained  me  very  agree- 
ably. Oh,  Debby,  I  have  a  thousand  things  to  tell  thee. 
I  shall  give  thee  so  droll  an  account  of  my  adventures 
that  thee  will  smile.  '  No  occasion  of  that,  Sally,'  me- 
thinks  I  hear  thee  say,  'for  thee  tells  me  every  trifle.' 
But,  child,  thee  is  mistaken,  for  I  have  not  told  thee  half 
the  civil  things  that  are  said  of  us  sweet  creatures  at 
'  General  Smallwood's  quarters.' " l 

Truly  some  of  the  girls  of  a  century  and  a  quarter  ago 
were  not  a  whit  more  sanctimonious  than  the  girls  of 
to-day.  Again  Miss  Sally  writes:  "  The  Major  and  I  had 
a  little  chat  to  ourselves  this  eve.  No  harm,  I  assure 
thee;  he  and  I  are  friends.  This  eve  came  a  parson  be- 
longing to  the  army.  He  is  (how  shall  I  describe  him  ?) 
near  seven  foot  high,  thin,  and  meagre,  not  a  single  per- 
sonal charm,  and  very  few  mental  ones.  He  fell  vio- 
lently in  love  with  Liddy  [Foulke]  at  first  sight;  the  first 
discovered  conquest  that  has  been  made  since  the  arrival 
of  the  General.  .  .  .  When  will  Sally's  admirers  ap- 
pear? Ah!  that  indeed.  Why,  Sally  has  not  charms 
sufficient  to  pierce  the  heart  of  a  soldier.  But  still  I 
won't  despair.  Who  knows  what  mischief  1  yet  may 
do? 

"A  most  charming  day.  I  walked  to  the  door  and  re- 
ceived the  salutation  of  the  morn  from  Stoddert  and 

1  The  reader  who  would  know  something  of  the  neighborhood  in  which 
Miss  Sally  lived  at  this  time  should  consult  the  researches  of  Mr.  Howard 
M.  Jenkins. 

63 


WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

other  officers.  As  often  as  I  go  to  the  door,  so  often 
have  I  seen  the  Major.  We  chat  passingly,  as  'A  fine 
day,  Miss  Sally.'  'Yes,  very  fine,  Major.' 

"Another  very  charming  conversation  with  the  young 
Marylander.  He  seems  possessed  of  very  amiable  man- 
ners, sensible  and  agreeable.  He  has  by  his  unexcep- 
tional deportment  engaged  my  esteem." 

It  begins  to  look,  Miss  Sally,  as  if  the  Major's  bashful- 
ness  has  disappeared  entirely,  and  as  if  your  "esteem," 
as  you  quaintly  call  it,  meant  something  more  than  is 
implied  by  that  highly  decorous  word.  But  to  continue 
the  diary : 

"The  General,  Colonels  Wood,  Guest,  Crawford  and 
Line,  Majors  Stoddert  [Miss  Sally  always  spells  it  Stodard, 
by-the-way]  and  Leatherberry  dined  with  us  to-day. 
After  dinner,  Liddy,  Betsey  [Wister],  and  thy  smart 
journalizer,  put  on  their  bonnets  to  take  a  walk.  We 
left  the  house.  I  naturally  looked  back;  when,  behold, 
the  two  majors  seemed  debating  whether  to  follow  us  or 
not.  Liddy  said,  'We  shall  have  their  attendance,'  but  I 
did  not  think  so.  They  opened  the  gate  and  came  fast 
after  us.  They  overtook  us  about  ten  poles  from  home, 
and  begged  leave  to  attend  us.  No  fear  of  a  refusal. 
They  enquired  if  we  were  going  to  neighbor  Ro- 
berts's?  .  .  .  We  altered  the  plan  of  our  ramble, 
left  the  road,  and  walked  near  two  miles  thro'  the  woods. 
Mr.  Leatherberry,  observing  my  locket,  repeated  the 
lines : 

63 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY  AMERICA 

«•  •  On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
That  Jews  might  kiss  and  infidels  adore.' 

"I  replied  my  trinket  bore  no  resemblance  to  a  cross. 
'Tis  something  better,  madame.'  Tis  nonsense  tore- 
peat  all  that  was  said;  my  memory  is  not  so  obliging; 
but  it  is  sufficient  that  nothing  happened  during  our 
little  excursion  but  what  was  very  agreeable,  and  entirely 
consistent  with  the  strictest  rules  of  politeness  and  de- 
corum. I  was  vexed  a  little  at  tearing  my  muslin  petti- 
coat. I  had  on  my  white  dress,  quite  as  nice  as  a  first- 
day  in  town.  We  returned  home  safe.  Smallwood, 
Wood  and  Stoddert  drank  tea  with  us,  and  spent  the 
greater  part  of  the  evening.  I  declare  this  gentleman  [no 
need  to  interpose  that  Miss  Sally  means  Stoddert]  is  very, 
very  entertaining,  so  good-natured,  so  good-humored, — 
yes,  so  sensible;  I  wonder  he  is  not  married.  Are  there 
no  ladies  formed  to  his  taste  ?  " 

Fie!  Miss  Sally!  Do  you  not  know  of  at  least  one  lady 
who  is  formed  to  the  Major's  taste  ? 

Well,  all  this  game  of  flirtation  is  interrupted  by  the  de- 
parture of  Smallwood  and  his  staff  from  Penllyn  early  in 
November.  "The  Major  looks  dull,"  plaintively  chron- 
icles Miss  Sally,  in  announcing  that  the  officers  are  about 
to  leave.  Perhaps  the  Major  is  only  a  very  good  actor, 
and  thinks  it  more  polite  to  go  about  with  the  air  of  a 
distraught  hero  in  bombastic  tragedy.  When  he  bids 
the  girl  farewell  he  is  much  affected;  he  lowers  his  pleas- 
ant voice  almost  to  a  whisper  as  he  says:  "Good-bye, 

64 


WAR       AND      FLIRTATION 

Miss  Sally."  As  for  the  latter,  her  heart  is  full.  "Fare- 
well, ladies,  till  I  see  you  again ! "  cries  the  Major,  mount- 
ing his  horse  and  cantering  off  towards  the  Morris  Road. 
"Amiable  Major!"  "Clever  fellow!"  remark  the  Wis- 
ters  and  Foulkes  who  watch  regretfully  the  retreating 
figure  of  the  officer.  "  I  wonder  if  we  shall  ever  see  him 
again,  "sighs  Miss  Sally,  who  feels  rather  dreary,  poor  thing. 
When,  several  weeks  after  the  Major  has  joined  the 
forces  of  Washington  at  White  Marsh,  there  arrive  at  the 
Foulke  house  two  Virginia  officers,  Miss  Sally  is  in  no 
mood  to  appreciate  them.  How  can  Lieutenants  Lee 
and  Warring  be  compared  with  Major  Stoddert  ?  "  Lee," 
she  records,  "is  not  remarkable  one  way  or  the  other; 
Warring  an  insignificant  piece  enough.  Lee  sings  pret- 
tily, and  talks  a  great  deal ;— how  good  turkey  hash  and 
fried  hominy  are  (a  pretty  discourse  to  entertain  the 
ladies);  extols  Virginia,  and  execrates  Maryland,  which, 
by-the-way,  I  provoked  them  to;  for  though  I  admire 
both  Virginia  and  Maryland,  I  laughed  at  the  former,  and 
praised  the  latter,  and  I  ridiculed  their  manner  of  speak- 
ing. I  took  a  great  delight  in  teasing  them.  I  believe  I 
did  it  sometimes  ill-naturedly;  but  I  don't  care.  They 
were  not,  I  am  certain  almost,  first-rate  gentlemen. 
(How  different  from  those  other  officers.)  But  they  are 
gone  to  Virginia,  where  they  may  sing,  dance,  and  eat 
fried  hominy  and  turkey  hash  all  day  long,  if  they  choose. 
Nothing  scarcely  lowers  a  man,  in  my  opinion,  more 
than  talking  of  eating." 

65 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

It  is  on  the  sixth  of  December  that  Major  Stoddert  re- 
turns to  Penllyn  in  a  highly  romantic  and  therefore,  to 
Miss  Sally,  a  very  interesting  state.  He  has  had  a  severe 
fever,  brought  on  by  the  fatigue  of  camp  life  and  expo- 
sure to  the  night  air,  and  he  can  scarcely  walk.  How  pale 
he  looks,  yet  how  charming  will  it  be  for  a  certain 
maiden  to  help  him  back  to  health! 

The  next  day  the  Major  announces  that  he  is  "  quite 
recovered."  "Well,"  says  Miss  Sally,  half-laughingly, 
"  I  fancy  this  indisposition  hath  saved  thy  head  this 
time."  "No,  ma'am,"  replies  the  officer,  who  would  not 
be  accused,  even  in  the  spirit  of  fun,  of  playing  the  in- 
valid for  the  sake  of  his  life;  "for  if  I  hear  a  firing  I 
shall  soon  be  with  the  troops!"  The  girl  is  thrilled. 
"That  was  heroic!  "  she  says,  and  she  signalizes  the  re- 
turn of  the  wandering  Major  by  decking  herself  out  in  a 
new  and  very  much  "  grown-up  "  gown  of  silk  and  cot- 
ton. "I  feel  quite  awkwardish,  and  prefer  the  girlish 
dress,"  she  explains;  but  we  may  be  sure  that  she  kept 
one  of  her  bright  eyes  pinned  on  the  soldier's  face,  to 
discover  what  he  would  think  of  the  silk  and  cotton. 

One  evening  following  this  incident,  Miss  Sally  and 
Miss  Liddy  Foulke  are  having  a  very  delightful  time  in 
the  drawing-room,  talking  to  the  convalescent  Major, 
who  seems  in  no  hurry  to  eschew  the  sirens  of  Penllyn. 
Perhaps  Miss  Sally  wishes  Miss  Liddy  would  make  it 
convenient  to  leave  the — but  no  matter!  Suddenly  the 
former  asks  the  Major  if  he  will  return  to  tell  them 

66 


WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

about  the  next  battle  in  which  he  will  be  engaged.  "I 
certainly  will,  ma'am,"  he  says  devotedly,  "if  I  am 
favored  with  my  life."  Sally  must  catch  her  breath  at 
the  awful  contingency,  while  the  Major,  the  sly  dog,  is 
doubtless  anxious  she  should  have  a  keen  idea  of  the  un- 
certainty of  human  life,  and  of  his  life  in  particular. 
Then  Miss  Liddy,  who  is  either  very  tactless  or  a  great 
tease,  blurts  out  that  there  is  a  man  in  the  kitchen  who 
has  just  come  from  the  army.  Up  jumps  Stoddert.  He 
is  only  too  anxious  to  hear  news  from  his  companions 
in  arms,  who  are  soon  to  break  camp  at  White  Marsh  and 
march  to  Valley  Forge.  "Good-night  to  you,  ladies,"  he 
says,  as  his  manly  form  disappears  through  the  drawing- 
room  doorway. 

"Liddy,  thee  hussy,"  angrily  cries  Miss  Sally;  "what 
business  had  thee  to  mention  a  word  of  the  army  ?  Thee 
sees  it  sent  him  off.  Thy  evil  genius  prevailed,  and  we 
all  feel  the  effects  of  it." 

"Lord  bless  me,"  pleads  Liddy  Foulke,  "I  had  not  a 
thought  of  his  going,  or  for  ten  thousand  worlds  I  would 
not  have  spoke." 

The  Major  returns  no  more  that  night,  and  Miss  Sally 
becomes  so  "low-spirited  "  that  she  can  "hardly  speak." 

Once,  some  days  later,  the  Major  hears  the  sound  of 
platoon  firing.  The  occupants  of  the  Foulke  mansion 
rush  out  excitedly  into  the  road.  The  two  armies,  they 
declare,  must  be  engaging  each  other;  perhaps  General 
Howe  has  come  out  from  his  cozy  quarters  in  Philadel- 

67 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

phia  to  attack  General  Washington.  The  Major,  still  an 
invalid,  says  quietly  to  one  of  the  Wister  servants:  "Will 
you  be  kind  enough  to  saddle  my  horse  ?  I  shall  go! " 

"It  is  nothing  but  skirmishing  with  the  flanking 
parties,"  observes  a  gentleman.  "Do  not  go,  Major!" 
"Oh,  Major,"  cries  Miss  Sally,  forgetting  her  prudence, 
"thee  is  not  going?"  "  Yes,  I  am,  Miss  Sally,"  says  the 
officer,  bowing  low,  and  doubtless  relishing  the  heroic 
light  in  which  Sally  is  regarding  him.  He  goes  out  into 
the  highway,  bent  on  battle.  She  expects  to  see  him 
brought  back  a  corpse.  But  the  firing  ceases,  and  the 
Major  is  persuaded  to  return  to  the  house.  It  has  been 
only  a  skirmish,  after  all.  Sally  is  charmed.  "Ill  as  he 
was,"  she  writes,  "he  would  have  gone.  It  showed  his 
bravery,  of  which  we  all  believed  him  possessed  of  a 
large  share." 

Next  the  Major  goes  off  to  join  the  troops  encamped  at 
Valley  Forge.  "I  don't  think  we  shall  see  him  again," 
Sally  confides  to  Miss  Deborah  Norris.  In  the  meantime 
two  more  officers  arrive  on  the  scene.  They  are  a  Cap- 
tain Lipscomb  and  a  Mr.  Tilly.  The  Captain  is  "tall, 
genteel,"  with  a  "softness"  in  his  countenance  that  is 
"very  pleasing,"  and  with  light,  shining  auburn  hair 
which  delights  all  feminine  beholders.  Although  he  is 
not  a  "lady's  man,"  Miss  Sally  finds  him  "perfectly  po- 
lite." She  thus  sketches  the  appearance  of  Tilly:  "He 
seems  a  wild,  noisy  mortal,  tho'  I  am  not  much  ac- 
quainted with  him.  He  appears  bashful  when  with  girls. 

68 


Miss  SALLY  WISTER 


WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

We  dissipated  the  Major's  bashfulness,  but  I  doubt  we 
have  not  so  good  a  subject  now.  He  is  above  the  com- 
mon size,  rather  genteel,  an  extreme  pretty,  ruddy  face, 
hair  brown,  and  a  sufficiency  of  it,  very  great  laughter, 
and  talks  so  excessively  fast  that  he  often  begins  a  sen- 
tence without  finishing  the  last,  which  confuses  him  very 
much,  and  then  he  blushes  and  laughs.  .  .  .  While 
we  sat  at  tea,  the  parlor  door  was  opened;  in  came 
Tilly;  his  appearance  was  elegant;  he  had  been  riding; 
the  wind  had  given  the  most  beautiful  glow  to  his  cheeks. 
Oh,  my  heart,  thought  I,  be  secure!  The  caution  was 
needless;  I  found  it  without  a  wish  to  stray." 

Evidently  Miss  Sally's  heart  had  no  idea  of  straying 
when  it  gave  room  to  the  absent  Major.  "  I  am  vexed  at 
Tilly,"  resumes  ihe  young  lady.  "  He  has  a  German  flute, 
but  does  nothing  but  play  the  fool.  He  begins  a 
tune,  plays  a  note  or  so,  and  then  stops.  After  a  while 
he  begins  again ;  then  stops  again.  '  Will  that  do  ? '  he 
asks,  and  bursts  into  an  inane  laugh.  He  has  given 
us  but  two  regular  tunes  since  he  arrived.  I  am  pas- 
sionately fond  of  music.  How  boyish  he  behaves! " 

While  Tilly  is  making  an  idiot  of  himself  on  the  Ger- 
man flute  the  Major  comes  prancing  back  to  the  Foulke 
house.  He  has  seemingly  not  relished  the  idea  of  camp- 
ing at  Valley  Forge,  and  has  found  some  excuse  to  re- 
turn to  the  sprightly  presence  of  Miss  Wister.  The 
latter  is  entranced.  Stoddert  takes  quick  measure  of  the 
piping  Tilly,  and  concludes  that  this  gentleman  will  make 

69 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

an  excellent  subject  for  a  joke.  While  the  girl  is  darning 
an  apron — for  the  ladies  of  quality  in  those  days  were 
not  above  mending — the  beau  (he  should  have  been 
starving  at  Valley  Forge,  the  rogue!)  is  complimenting 
her  upon  her  handiwork.  "Well,  Miss  Sally,"  he  asks, 
"what  would  you  do  if  the  British  were  to  come 
here?" 

"Do?"  exclaims  Miss  Sally,  with  a  pretty  little  shiver. 
She  knows  the  British  are  still  in  Philadelphia.  "I 
should  be  frightened  just  to  death ! " 

The  Major  laughs,  and  says  that  if  the  enemy  comes 
he  will  hide  himself  behind  the  figure  of  a  British 
grenadier  which  stands  on  the  first  landing  of  the  stair- 
way. It  is  unusually  well  executed,  six  feet  high,  and 
makes  a  martial  appearance.1  A<  happy  thought  strikes 
the  waggish  Major.  "Of  all  things,"  he  says,  "  I  should 
like  to  frighten  Tilly  with  the  figure."  So  a  plan  is  soon 
arranged,  amid  much  whispering  and  giggling,  to  test 
the  courage  of  the  unsuspecting  Tilly.  The  British 
grenadier  is  placed  at  a  point  of  vantage  in  the  hallway, 
and  Tilly,  being  brought  face  to  face  with  it,  and  hearing 
one  of  the  conspirators  cry,  in  a  thundering  voice,  "  Are 
there  any  rebel  officers  here?"  promptly  turns  to  the 
right  about.  "Not  waiting  for  a  second  word,  he  darted 
like  lightning  out  of  the  front  door,  through  the  yard, 
and  bolted  o'er  the  fence.  Swamps,  fences,  thorn- 

'  This  figure  was  afterwards  removed  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Charles  J. 
Wister,  in  Germantown. 

70 


WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

hedges  and  ploughed  fields  in  no  way  impeded 
his  retreat."  The  woods  echoed  with  "  Which 
way  did  he  go?"  "Stop  him!"  "Surround  the 
house! " 

"The  amiable  Lipscomb,"  writes  Miss  Sally,  an  hour 
or  two  later,  "  had  his  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  door,  in- 
tending to  make  his  escape;  Stoddert,  considering  his 
indisposition,  acquainted  him  with  the  deceit.  The 
females  ran  down-stairs  to  join  in  the  general  laugh.  I 
walked  into  Jesse's  [Jesse  Foulke's]  parlor.  There  sat 
poor  Stoddert  (whose  sore  lips  must  have  received  no  ad- 
vantage from  this),  almost  convulsed  with  laughing, 
rolling  in  an  armchair." 

Poor  Miss  Sally  Wister!  She  took  such  a  profound  in- 
terest in  the  Major  that  she  was  even  solicitous  for  his 
sore  lips. 

"  He  said  nothing;  I  believe  he  could  not  have  spoke. 
'  Major  Stoddert,'  said  I,  'go  to  call  Tilly  back.  He  will 
lose  himself, — indeed  he  will ' — every  word  interrupted 
with  a  '  Ha!  ha! '  At  last  he  rose,  and  went  to  the  door; 
and  what  a  loud  voice  could  avail  in  bringing  him  back 
he  tried.  Figure  to  thyself  this  Tilly,  of  a  snowy  even- 
ing, no  hat,  shoes  down  at  the  heel,  hair  unty'd,  flying 
across  meadows,  creeks  and  mud-holes.  Flying  from 
what  ?  Why,  a  bit  of  painted  wood !  But  he  was 
ignorant  of  what  it  was.  The  idea  of  being  made  a 
prisoner  wholly  engrossed  his  mind,  and  his  last  resource 
was  to  run.  After  a  while,  we  being  in  more  com- 

71 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY    AMERICA 

posure,  and  our  bursts  of  laughter  less  frequent,  yet  by 
no  means  subsided — in  full  assembly  of  girls  and  officers, 
— Tilly  entered.  The  greatest  part  of  my  risibility 
turned  to  pity.  Inexpressible  confusion  had  taken  entire 
possession  of  his  countenance,  his  fine  hair  hanging 
disheveled  down  his  shoulders,  all  splashed  with  mud; 
yet  his  bright  confusion  and  race  had  not  divested  him  of 
his  beauty.  He  smiled  as  he  tripped  up  the  steps;  but 
'twas  vexation  placed  it  on  his  features.  Joy  at  that 
moment  was  banished  from  his  heart.  He  briskly 
walked  five  or  six  steps,  then  stopped,  and  took  a  general 
survey  of  us  all.  '  Where  have  you  been,  Mr.  Tilly  ? '  asked 
one  officer.  We  girls  were  silent.  '  I  really  imagined,' 
said  Major  Stoddert,  'that  you  were  gone  for  your 
pistols.  I  followed  you  to  prevent  danger,' — an  excess- 
ive laugh  at  each  question,  which  it  was  impossible  to 
restrain.  'Pray,  where  were  your  pistols,  Tilly?'  He 
broke  his  silence  by  the  following  expression:  '  You  may 
all  go  to .'  I  never  heard  him  utter  an  in- 
decent expression  before. 

"  At  last  his  good  nature  gained  a  complete  ascendence 
over  his  anger,  and  he  joined  heartily  in  the  laugh.  I 
will  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  bore  it  charmingly. 
No  cowardly  threats,  no  vengeance  pronounced.  Stod- 
dert caught  hold  of  his  coat.  '  Come,  look  at  what  you 
ran  away  from,'  and  dragged  him  to  the  door.  He  gave 
it  a  look,  said  it  was  very  natural,  and  by  the  singularity 
of  his  expression  gave  fresh  cause  for  diversion.  We 

72 


WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

all  retired  to  our  different  parlors,  for  the  rest  of  our 
faces,  if  I  may  say  so." 

The  next  day  Miss  Sally  has  quite  forgotten  the  episode 
of  Tilly  and  the  wooden  grenadier.  "  Oh,  Deborah," 
she  writes  plaintively,  "the  Major  is  going  to  leave  us 
entirely — just  going.  I  will  see  him  first."  There  is 
pathos  in  that  second  sentence — "I  will  see  him  first." 
Who  knows  what  tender  words  were  uttered  in  that  last 
interview  ?  A  few  hours  later  she  says:  "  He  has  gone. 
I  saw  him  pass  the  bridge.  The  woods  which  thee  enters 
immediately  after  crossing  it  hindered  us  from  following 
him  further.  I  seem  to  fancy  he  will  return  in  the  even- 
ing." At  night  she  jots  down  in  her  diary,  perhaps  to  the 
accompaniment  of  tears,  the  following:  "Stoddert  not 
come  back.  We  shall  not,  I  fancy,  see  him  again  for 
months,  perhaps  for  years,  unless  he  should  visit  Phila- 
delphia." 

And  thus  the  entertaining  major  vanishes  from  the  life 
of  Sally  Wister,  never  to  return.  We  hear  of  him,  in 
after  years,  as  a  statesman  of  reputation,  but  we  never 
hear  of  him,  as  we  should  like  to,  as  the  betrothed  of  this 
charming  Philadelphia  maiden.  It  is  hard  to  determine 
how  serious  was  this  love-affair  which  unfolded  its 
quaint  story  amid  the  booming  of  cannon  and  the  clink 
of  swords.  Possibly  the  Major  was  a  sad  flirt,  and  never 
spoke  the  word  which  Miss  Sally  half  expected  to  hear 
trembling  on  his  lips.  Let  the  girl  keep  her  secret.  Of 
one  thing,  at  least,  we  are  assured.  Until  the  day  when 

73 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY    AMERICA 

she  dies,  a  staid  old  maid,  Miss  Sally  will  have  a  soft  spot 
in  her  heart  for  this  departed  hero. 

A  week  after  Stoddert's  leave-taking  the  girl  chronicles 
that  the  other  officers  have  gone  away  to  their  several 
duties.  "I  feel  sorry  at  this  departure,"  she  adds  signifi- 
cantly, "yet  'tis  a  different  kind  from  what  I  felt  some 
time  since."  That  tells  the  story  better  than  a  thousand 
pages  of  lamentation.  There  is  truth  in  simplicity. 

Yet  Miss  Sally  is  too  young  to  go  into  a  decline,  or  to 
think  of  "silent  tombs,"  because  her  beau  sabreur  has 
taken  himself  off.     She  still  can  write  attractively  of  her 
experiences  in  Montgomery  County,  and  is  by  no  means 
blind  to  the  attentions  of  a  handsome  man.     When  she 
moves  away  from  the  Foulke  mansion  to  join  her  family 
at  a  farm  in  the  North  Wales  district,  several  miles  away, 
she  is  thrilled  by  the  appearance  on  the  scene  of  a  dis- 
tinguished Virginian.    It  is  now  June  of  1778.     An  ele- 
gant officer  rides  up  to  the  farm,  and  proceeds  to  quarter 
five  and  twenty  men  in  one  of  the  adjacent  fields.     Miss 
Sally  is  thrown  into  a  state  of  pleasurable  excitement. 
"What  is  the  name  of  this  man  ?"    she  demands  of  her 
cousin,  "Prissa"  Foulke. 
"Dyer,  I  believe,"  replies  the  cousin. 
"Captain  Dyer!    Oh,  the  name!    What  does  he  say?" 
"Why,  that  he  will  kiss  me  when  he  has  dined!" 
"Singular,  on  so  short  an  acquaintance,"  roguishly  ob- 
serves Miss  Sally. 

"  He  came  and  fixed  his  arm  on  the  chair  I  sat  in,"  re- 

74 


WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

sumes  Miss  Prissa.  "  'Pray  ma'am,'  he  asked,  'is  there 
not  a  family  from  town  with  you?'  'Yes.'  'What's 
their  name ?'  '  Wister.'  'There  are  two  fine  girls  there. 
I  will  go  chat  with  them.  Pray,  did  they  leave  their 
effects  in  Philadelphia?'  'Yes,  everything  almost.' 
'They  shall  have  them  again,  that  they  shall.' 

"Oh,  Sally,"  cries  Miss  Prissa,  as  she  mimics  the  offi- 
cer's manner,  "he's  a  Virginian;  that's  greatly  in  his 
favor!  I'm  not  sure  Dyer's  his  name,  but  I  understood 
so." 

By  nightfall  Miss  Sally  has  met  the  mysterious  "  Dyer," 
and  feels,  forsooth,  as  if  she  had  been  through  the  most 
sensational  of  adventures.  For  she  writes  thus  to  Deborah 
Norris: 

"  Take  a  circumstantial  account  of  this  afternoon  and 
the  person  of  this  extraordinary  man.  His  exterior 
first.  His  name  is  not  Dyer,  but  Alexander  Spotswood 
Dandridge,  which  certainly  gives  a  genteel  idea  of  the 
man.  I  will  be  particular.  His  person  is  more  elegantly 
formed  than  any  I  ever  saw;  tall,  and  commanding. 
[Perhaps  Miss  Sally  makes  a  mental  reservation  in  favor 
of  a  certain  absent  major  as  she  writes  this.]  His  fore- 
head is  very  white,  though  the  lower  part  of  his  face  is 
much  sunburned;  his  features  are  extremely  pleasing; 
an  even,  white  set  of  teeth,  dark  hair  and  eyes.  I  can't 
better  describe  him  than  by  saying  he's  the  handsomest 
man  I  ever  beheld.  Betsey  and  Liddy  coincide  in  this 
opinion. 

75 


ROMANCES    OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

"  After  I  had  sat  a  while  at  home  in  came  Dandridge. 
[You  are  a  trifle  sly,  Miss  Sally !  Confess  that  you  were 
waiting  for  him.]  He  entered  into  chat  immediately. 
Asked  if  we  knew  Tacy  Vanderen  ?  Said  he  courted  her, 
and  that  they  were  to  be  married  soon.  Observed 
my  sampler,  which  was  in  full  view.  Wished  I  would 
teach  the  Virginians  some  of  my  needle  wisdom;  they 
were  the  laziest  girls  in  the  world.  Told  his  name. 
Laughed  and  talked  incessantly.  At  last  '  May  I '  (to 
mamma)  'introduce  my  brother  officer?'  We  assented; 
so  he  called  him.  '  Mr.  Watts,  Mrs.  Wister,  young  Miss 
Wister.  Mr.  Watts,  ladies,  is  one  of  our  Virginia  chil- 
dren.' He  sat  down.  Tea  was  ordered.  Dandridge 
never  drank  tea ;  Watts  had  done,  so  we  sat  to  the  table 
alone.  'Let's  walk  in  the  garden,'  said  the  Captain 
[Dandridge] ;  so  we  called  Liddy  and  went  (not  Watts). 
We  sat  down  in  a  sort  of  summer-house.  '  Miss  Sally, 
are  you  a  Quaker  ? '  '  Yes.'  '  Now,  are  you  a  Quaker  ? ' 
'Yes,  I  am.'  'Then  you  are  a  Tory?'  'I  am  not,  in- 
deed.' Had  we  been  acquainted  seven  years,  we  could 
not  have  been  more  sociable." 

Miss  Sally  has  not  forgotten  the  Major,  and,  evidently, 
is  not  in  love  with  Captain  Dandridge,  but  she  likes  to 
amuse  herself,  and  the  man  in  the  pale  moon  looks  down 
upon  them  good-humoredly,  with  a  smile  on  that  twisted 
face  of  his.  As  they  sit  together  gazing  at  nature  the 
Captain  (who,  by  the  way,  is  a  relation  of  General  Wash- 
ington's wife,  who  was  born  a  Dandridge)  tells  the  girl 

76 


WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

that  he  must  be  off  the  next  morning  before  sunrise. 
Miss  Sally  is  duly  impressed  by  the  announcement,  and 
thinks  how  hard  must  be  the  life  of  a  soldier.  But  be- 
hold what  she  wrote  down  in  the  famous  diary  the  next  day : 
"I  was  awakened  this  morning  with  a  great  racket  of 
the  Captain's  servant  calling  him,  but  the  lazy  fellow 
never  rose  till  about  half  an  hour  past  eight.  This  his 
daylight  ride!  I  imagined  they  would  be  gone  before 
now,  so  I  dressed  in  a  green  skirt  and  dark  short  gown. 
Provoking.  So  down  I  came,  this  Captain  (wild  wretch) 
standing  at  the-  back  door.  He  bowed  and  called  me.  I 
only  looked,  and  went  to  breakfast.  About  nine  I  took 
my  work  and  seated  myself  in  the  parlor.  Not  long  had 
I  sat  when  in  came  Dandridge — the  handsomest  man  in 
existence,  at  least  that  I  had  ever  seen.  But  stop  here, 
while  I  just  say,  the  night  before,  chatting  upon  dress,  he 
said  he  had  no  patience  with  those  officers  who,  every 
morn  before  they  went  on  detachments,  would  wait  to 
be  dressed  and  powdered.  'I  am,' said  I,  'excessively 
fond  of  powder  and  think  it  very  becoming.'  '  Are  you  ? ' 
he  reply'd.  '  I  am  very  careless,  as  often  wearing  my 
cap  thus'  (turning  the  back  part  before)  'as  any  way.' 
I  left  off  where  he  came  in.  He  was  powdered  very 
white,  a  (pretty  colored)  brown  coat,  lapelled  with  green, 
and  white  waistcoat,  etc.,  and  his 

"•Sword  beside  him  negligently  hung.' 

He  made  a  truly  elegant  figure.     '  Good-morning,  Miss 

77 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

Sally.  You  are  very  well,  I  hope  ? '  '  Very  well.  Pray 
sit  down,'  which  he  did  close  by  me.  'Oh,  dear,'  said  I, 
'  1  see  thee  is  powdered.'  '  Yes,  ma'am.  I  have  dressed 
myself  off  for  you.'  Will  I  be  excused,  Debby,  if  I  look 
upon  his  being  powdered  in  the  light  of  a  compliment  to 
me  ?  '  Yes,  Sally,  as  thee  is  a  country  maid,  and  don't 
often  meet  with  compliments.'  Saucy  Debby  Norris!  " 

The  dashing  Dandridge  rides  away,  but  his  duty,  what- 
ever it  may  have  been,  does  not  seem  to  fatigue  or  dis- 
tress him,  for  he  is  back  again  before  noon.  "Oh,  Miss 
Sally,"  he  cries  merrily,  catching  the  girl's  hands,  "I 
have  a  beautiful  sweetheart  for  you !  " 

"Pooh!  ridiculous!"  simpers  Miss  Sally,  with  a  pretty 
pretense  of  indignation.  "  Loose  my  hands! " 

"  Well,  but  don't  be  so  cross!  " 

"Who  is  he?"  asks  Miss  Sally,  with  true  feminine 
curiosity. 

"  Major  Clough." 

"I  have  seen  him." 

"Is  he  not  pretty?" 

"To  be  sure! " 

"I  am  going  to  headquarters.  Have  you  any  com- 
mands there?" 

"Yes,  I  have,"  replies  the  young  lady,  very  severely. 
" Pray,  who  is  thy  commanding  officer?" 

"Colonel  Bland,  ma'am,"  returns  the  Captain,  in  no 
wise  frightened. 

"Please  give  my  compliments  to  him,"  orders  Miss 

78 


WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

Sally,  "and  say  I  should  be  glad  if  he  would  send  thee 
back  with  a  little  more  manners." 

Thereupon  Dandridge  becomes,  we  are  told,  "intoler- 
ably saucy,"  and  vows  that  Miss  Sally  has  "a  little  spite- 
ful heart."  Then  she  protests,  amid  much  laughter,  that 
the  Captain  is  a  wicked  fellow. 

"Sally,"  he  asks,  "if  Tacy  Vanderen  won't  have  me, 
will  you?" 

"No,  really,  none  of  her  discarded  lovers!" 

"  But,  provided  I  prefer  you  to  her,  will  you  consent?" 

"No,  I  won't,"  pouts  the  Quakeress. 

"  Very  well,  madame." 

"  And,  after  saying  he  would  return  to-morrow,  among 
a  hundred  other  things,"  the  diary  continues,  "he  ele- 
gantly walked  out  of  the  room.  Soon  he  came  back, 
took  up  a  volume  of  Homer's  Iliad,  and  read  aloud  to  us. 
He  reads  very  well,  and  with  judgment.  One  remark  he 
made,  that  I  will  relate,  on  these  lines:  — 

" « While  Greece  a  heavy,  thick  retreat  maintains, 
Wedg'd  in  one  body,  like  a  flight  of  cranes.' 

"' knows  our  army  won't  do  so.  I  wish  they 

did.'  He  laughed,  and  went  away." 

The  following  day  saw  the  last  of  the  captivating 
Dandridge.  Perhaps  he  would  have  been  quite  willing  to 
throw  over  the  absent  Miss  Tacy  Vanderen,  had  Miss 
Wister  given  him  the  needed  encouragement.  The 
young  chronicler  thus  tells  of  his  departure: 

79 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

"Major  Clough,  Captain  Swan,  and  Mr.  Moore,  a  lieu- 
tenant of  horse,  dined  with  Dandridge.  The  latter,  after 
dinner,  came  in  to  bid  us  adieu.  He  sat  down,  and  was 
rather  saucy.  I  looked  very  grave.  '  Miss  Betsey,  you 
have  a  very  ill-natured  sister.  Observe  how  cross  she 
looks.'  He  prayed  we  might  part  friends,  and  offered 
his  hand.  I  gave  him  mine,  which  he  kissed  in  a  very 
gallant  manner;  and  so,  with  truly  affectionate  leave,  he 
walked  to  the  parlor  door.  'God  bless  you,  ladies,'  he 
said,  bowed,  went  into  the  road,  mounted  a  very  fine 
horse,  and  rode  away;  leaving  Watts  and  the  troop 
here  to  take  care  of  us,  as  he  said.  'Mr.  Watts,  Miss 
Sally,  is  a  very  worthy  man ;  but,  poor  soul,  he  is  so  cap- 
tivated with  you, — the  pain  in  his  breast  all  owing  to 

you '  But  he  is  gone,  and  I  think,  as  I  have  escaped 

thus  far  safe,  I  am  quite  a  heroine,  and  need  not  be  fear- 
ful of  any  of  the  lords  of  creation  for  the  future." 

This  is  the  last  of  Dandridge.  Miss  Sally,  though 
there  is  still  an  ache  in  her  heart  on  account  of  Major 
Stoddert,  has  been  charmed  by  the  Captain's  flattery. 
She  thus  sums  up  his  character,  which,  she  says,  it 
would  take  the  genius  of  a  Hogarth  to  describe  properly. 
"He  is  possessed  of  a  good  understanding,  a  very  liberal 
education,  gay  and  volatile  to  excess.  He  is  an  Indian, 
a  gentleman,  grave  and  gay,  in  the  same  hour.  But  what 
signifies?  I  can't  give  thee  a  true  idea  of  him;  but  he 
assumes  at  pleasure  a  behavior  the  most  courtly,  the 

most  elegant  of  anything  I  ever  saw.     He  is  very  enter- 
so 


WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

taining  company,  and  very  vain  of  his  personal  beauties; 
yet  nevertheless  his  character  is  exceptional." 

Let  us  give  the  closing  paragraphs  of  the  diary,  and  we 
have  done: 

"Sixth  Day,  Morn,  June  ipth,  [1778]. 
"We  have  heard  an  astonishing  piece  of  news!    The 
English  have  entirely  left  the  city!     [Philadelphia.]    It  is 
almost  impossible!    Stay,  I  shall  hear  further. 

"  Sixth  Day,  Eve. 

"A  light  horseman  has  just  confirmed  the  above  intel- 
ligence! This  is  charmante!  They  decamped  yester- 
day. He  (the  horseman)  was  in  Philadelphia.  It  is  true. 
They  have  gone.  Past  a  doubt.  I  can't  help  exclaiming 
to  the  girls, — '  Now  are  you  sure  the  news  is  true  ?  Now 
are  you  sure  they  have  gone?'  'Yes,  yes,  yes!'  they 
all  cry,  'and  may  they  never,  never  return.'  Dr.  Gould 
came  here  to-night.  Our  army  are  about  six  miles  off, 
on  their  march  to  the  Jerseys. 

"Seventh  Day,  Morn. 

"O.  F.  [Owen  Foulke]  arrived  just  now,  and  related 
as  followeth : — The  army  began  their  march  at  six  this 
morning  by  their  house.  .  .  .  Our  brave,  our  heroic 
GENERAL  WASHINGTON  was  escorted  by  fifty  of  the  Life 
Guard,  with  drawn  swords.  Each  day  he  acquires  an  ad- 
dition to  his  goodness.  We  have  been  very  anxious  to 
know  how  the  inhabitants  of  Philadelphia  have  fared.  I 

understand  that  General  Arnold,  who  bears  a  good  char- 

81 


ROMANCES   OF    EARLY   AMERICA 

acter,1  has  the  command  of  the  city,  and  that  the  soldiers 
conducted  themselves  with  great  decorum.  General 
Smallwood  says  they  had  the  strictest  orders  to  behave 
well;  and  I  dare  say  they  obeyed  the  order.  I  now  think 
of  nothing  but  returning  to  Philadelphia.  So  I  shall  now 
conclude  this  journal  with  humbly  hoping  that  the  Great 
Disposer  of  events,  who  hath  graciously  vouchsafed  to 
protect  us  to  this  day  through  many  dangers,  will  still  be 
pleased  to  continue  His  protection." 

Would  that  the  journal  had  not  stopped  here!  Would 
that  Miss  Sally  had  gone  on  for  years  detailing  the  life 
around  her,  and  giving  us  her  graphic,  incisive  pen- 
pictures  of  the  people  with  whom  she  was  brought  in 
contact!  But  she  returned  to  Philadelphia  in  due  course, 
to  meet  her  particular  friend,  Miss  Debby  Norris,  and 
that  was  the  end,  so  far  as  the  public  knows,  of  her 
journalistic  efforts.  Had  she  kept  on  in  the  good  work 
she  might,  with  her  undoubted  literary  talent,  have  de- 
veloped into  a  new  Madame  de  Sevigne,  or  a  novelist  of 
power. 

Instead  of  doing  either  of  those  things,  however,  Miss 
Sally  Wister  "became  quite  serious  after  she  grew  to 
womanhood,"  and  died  in  the  spring  of  1804,  unmarried. 
Major  Stoddert  became  Secretary  of  the  Navy  in  1798, 
while  of  Captain  Dandridge,  who,  let  us  hope,  remained 
constant  to  his  "Tacy,"  we  hear  nothing  more.  One 

1The  same  Benedict  Arnold  who  afterwards  bore  anything  but  a 
"  good  character." 

82 


WAR      AND      FLIRTATION 

almost  feels  a  sense  of  personal  grievance  that  Stoddert 
did  not  return  after  the  war  was  over — if  he  were  still 
unmarried — to  carry  off  Miss  Sally  to  his  native  Mary- 
land. 

Little  did  Miss  Sally  know  that  her  precious  diary,  with 
all  its  confidences,  would  some  day  be  public  property. 
Could  she  have  foreseen  such  a  result  she  might  have 
written  less  entertainingly.  In  one  thing,  at  least,  she 
tried  to  be  discreet.  She  never  said  that  she  loved  Major 
Stoddert.  But  there  is  an  art  called  "reading  between 
the  lines,"  and  therein  often  lies  the  greatest  truth. 
Doubtless  Miss  Debby  Norris,  otherwise  Mrs.  Logan, 
practiced  that  art  as  she  read  the  diary.  Curiously 
enough  she  never  had  a  chance  to  do  this  until  years  after 
the  death  of  her  friend,  when  the  faded  pages  were  given 
to  her  by  Miss  Sally's  brother. 


A    BELLE   OF    DELAWARE 


General  Hntbong 


IV 


A        BEL 

OLD-FA 
read! 
in  a 

affair,  and  thei 
an  exit  from 
the  Ultima  77 
far  more  path< 
expiring  at  the 
outlives  her  be 
many  a  montl 
wrinkles.    It 
zling  electric  lij 
wax  candle  whl 
feebly  flickers  a 


fe 

^ 


K 

K 


.AWARE 

d    old-fashioned 
'e  wont  to  revel 
infortunate   love 
t  chapter.    Such 
fully  regarded  as 
2.    Yet  there  is 
who,  instead  of 
ramatic  manner, 
nd  struggles  for 
e  still,  relentless 
;tween  the  daz- 
l  and  the  dainty 
ocket  and  then 
ix-candle  order 
,0,  of  Delaware, 


of  romance  is  t  - 

that  Revolutionary  belle  who  quickened  the  heart  beats 
of  many  an  American  officer  and  brought  to  her  pretty 
feet,  even  in  her  middle  age,  that  doughty  widower  and 
gallant  soldier,  "Mad"  Anthony  Wayne.  There  was 
nothing  theatrical  in  the  career  of  this  eighteenth-century 
lady,  no  hairbreadth  escapes,  no  elopements,  yet  her  life, 
with  its  conquests,  its  triumphs  and  disappointment, 
pleasantly  suggests  a  tale  of  powdered  hair  and  shoe- 

87 


IV 
A        BELLE        OF        DELAWARE 

OLD-FASHIONED  novelists  and  old-fashioned 
readers  of  a  certain  type  were  wont  to  revel 
in  a  heroine  who  had  an  unfortunate  love 
affair,  and  then  died  gracefully  in  the  last  chapter.  Such 
an  exit  from  the  mimic  world  was  tearfully  regarded  as 
the  Ultima  Thule  of  satisfying  romance.  Yet  there  is 
far  more  pathos  in  the  story  of  a  heroine  who,  instead  of 
expiring  at  the  right  moment,  and  in  a  dramatic  manner, 
outlives  her  beauty,  fame  and  fortune  and  struggles  for 
many  a  month  with  poverty,  and  worse  still,  relentless 
wrinkles.  It  is  exactly  the  difference  between  the  daz- 
zling electric  light  suddenly  extinguished  and  the  dainty 
wax  candle  which  burns  down  to  the  socket  and  then 
feebly  flickers  and  goes  out.  Of  the  wax-candle  order 
of  romance  is  the  story  of  Mary  Vining,  of  Delaware, 
that  Revolutionary  belle  who  quickened  the  heart  beats 
of  many  an  American  officer  and  brought  to  her  pretty 
feet,  even  in  her  middle  age,  that  doughty  widower  and 
gallant  soldier,  "Mad"  Anthony  Wayne.  There  was 
nothing  theatrical  in  the  career  of  this  eighteenth-century 
lady,  no  hairbreadth  escapes,  no  elopements,  yet  her  life, 
with  its  conquests,  its  triumphs  and  disappointment, 
pleasantly  suggests  a  tale  of  powdered  hair  and  shoe- 

87 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

buckles,  of  ceremonious  flirtations  between  the  move- 
ments of  the  minuet,  and  of  those  stirring  days  when 
King  George  III  sent  his  regiments  over  to  America  with 
the  worthy  object  of  either  shooting  or  hanging  all  our 
forefathers. 

Mary  Vining,  born  near  Dover  in  1756,  and  the  daugh- 
ter of  Judge  John  Vining,  had  for  her  heritage  beauty, 
fortune  and  social  position.  And  those  three  gifts  were 
as  much  prized  in  colonial  Delaware  a  century  and  a  half 
ago  as  they  are  to-day  in  conservative,  dignified  Phila- 
delphia or  cosmopolitan  New  York.  There  was  much 
virtue,  then  as  now,  in  dark,  sparkling  eyes,  piquant 
features,  a  comfortable  account  at  the  banker's,  and  a 
family  tree  of  respectable  proportions.  Thus  Mistress 
Molly  became  an  important  personage  from  the  year  of 
her  birth.  As  the  seasons  passed  quickly  onward,  the 
people  of  Dover  began  to  predict  that  she  would  soon 
blossom  into  a  belle  who  would  not  long  remain  in  a 
state  of  single  blessedness.  Meanwhile  the  young  lady 
herself  was  receiving  what  was  then  considered  a 
finished  feminine  education,  albeit  hardly  a  curriculum 
up  to  the  sterner  standards  of  Vassar  and  Bryn  Mawr. 
She  took  prodigiously  to  the  French  language,  and,  pos- 
sibly, might  be  caught  sitting  up  late  at  night  en- 
dangering her  pretty  black  eyes  by  reading  some  for- 
bidden novel,  or  a  "modish"  play.  So  far  as  novel- 
reading  by  stealth  is  concerned,  it  is  agreed  that  human 
nature  never  changes.  Girls  of  fifteen  still  have  a  liking 

88 


A       BELLE        OF       DELAWARE 

for  some  interdicted  romance,  although  they  no  longer 
weep  over  the  woes  of  an  Amelia  or  a  Clarissa  Harlowe. 

At  the  age  of  fourteen  Mary  Vining  lost  her  father, 
and  we  find  her  writing  a  quaint,  woe-begone  letter  to 
one  of  her  cousins.  "How  vain,"  she  says,  "is  it  to 
place  our  affection  upon  anything  in  this  world.  One 
moment,  perhaps,  happy  in  the  best  of  parents;  the  next, 
a  poor,  destitute  orphan.  Orphan!  Let  me  recall  that 
word.  I  have  yet  one  of  the  best  of  parents,  and  one 
who  is  deserving  of  all  my  love  and  duty."  She  breaks 
off  for  a  second  to  give  directions  about  some  "very 
good  green  tea"  to  be  used  "while  Mr.  Chew  is  down," 
and  concludes  with  the  "sincerest  prayer  to  yon 
Heaven  "  for  her  cousin's  happiness — "  if  there  is  such  a 
thing  on  earth."  l 

The  sentiment  of  the  letter  is  so  old-fashioned,  so 
characteristic  of  the  period,  that  one  can  almost  see  the 
child  as  she  bedews  the  paper  with  her  tears,  then  slowly 
blots  it  with  the  inevitable  sand,  and  wonders — if  Mr. 
Chew  will  like  the  green  tea. 

Mary  Vining  dries  her  dark  eyes,  as  any  other  healthy, 
buoyant  girl  would,  and  begins  to  wonder,  as  do  many  of 
her  elders,  what  will  come  of  the  fast-increasing  quarrel 
between  Great  Britain  and  her  stiff-necked  colonies. 
She  is  growing  prettier  all  the  time;  admirers  are  already 

1  Vide  an  article  on  Miss  Vining  by  Mrs.  Henry  G.  Banning,  in  the 
American  Historical  Register,  July,  1895.  Mr.  George  Hazlehurst  hat 
likewise  written  gracefully  of  our  heroine. 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY  AMERICA 

in  evidence;  when  they  are  not  discussing  the  "detesta- 
ble tyranny  "  of  his  Majesty,  King  George,  they  are  laud- 
ing the  regularity  of  the  young  lady's  nose,  or  the  charm 
of  her  smile.  Next  the  Revolution,  which  has  been 
smouldering  for  so  long,  breaks  out  into  fierce  blaze;  the 
battle  of  Bunker  Hill  is  fought,  and  bravely,  too;  events 
follow  quick  and  fast  At  last  the  delegates  to  the  Con- 
tinental Congress  at  Philadelphia  risk  their  lives  and  for- 
tunes by  adopting  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 
"  Let  us  hang  together,"  slyly  observes  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin, as  they  consider  the  document,  "  or  else  assuredly 
we  will  hang  separately." 

One  of  these  delegates,  who  enters  importantly  into 
the  life  of  Miss  Vining,  is  Caesar  Rodney,  of  Delaware. 
Many  of  us  have  heard  the  story  of  how  Rodney,  when 
hastily  summoned  to  Philadelphia  to  cast  his  vote  for  the 
Declaration,  rode  like  mad  to  that  city,  partly  in  a  driving 
rain-storm,  all  the  way  from  his  country  place  near 
Dover.  Some  of  us  have  read  Brooks's  poem,  wherein 
that  ride  will  no  doubt  be  followed  with  interest  by 
many  future  generations : 

"  In  that  soft  mid-land  where  the  breezes  bear 
The  North  and  South  on  the  genial  air, 
Through  the  county  of  Kent,  on  affairs  of  state, 
Rode  Caesar  Rodney,  the  delegate. 

"  Burly  and  big,  and  bold  and  bluff, 
In  his  three-cornered  hat  and  coat  of  snuff, 
A  foe  to  King  George  and  the  English  state 
Was  Caesar  Rodney,  the  delegate, 
90 


BELLE        OF       DELAWARE 

"  Into  Dover  village  he  rode  apace, 
And  his  kinsfolk  knew,  from  his  anxious  face, 
It  was  matter  grave  that  brought  him  there, 
To  the  counties  three  on  the  Delaware. 


"  Comes  a  rider  swift  on  a  panting  bay ; 
'  Ho,  Rodney,  ho  !     You  must  save  the  day, 

For  the  Congress  halts  at  a  deed  so  great, 

And  your  vote  alone  may  decide  its  fate.' 

"  Answered  Rodney,  then :  '  I  will  ride  with  speed ; 
It  is  Liberty's  stress;  it  is  Freedom's  need. 
When  stands  it  ? '    « To-night !      Not  a  moment  to  spare, 
But  ride  like  the  wind  from  the  Delaware  1 ' 

" '  Ho,  saddle  the  black !     I've  but  half  a  day, 
And  the  Congress  sits  eighty  miles  away — 
But  I'll  be  in  time,  if  God  grants  me  grace, 
To  shake  my  fist  in  King  George's  face.' 

"  He  is  up,  he  is  off,  and  the  black  horse  flies 
On  the  northward  road  ere  the  '  God-speed '  dies ; 
It  is  gallop  and  spur  as  the  leagues  they  clear, 
And  the  clustering  mile-stones  move  a-rear. 
****** 

"  It  is  seven ;  the  horse-boat,  broad  of  beam, 
At  the  Schuylkill  ferry  crawls  over  the  stream  — 
And  at  seven-fifteen  by  the  Rittenhouse  clock, 
He  flings  his  rein  to  the  tavern  jock. 

"  The  Congress  is  met ;  the  debate's  begun, 
And  Liberty  lags  for  the  vote  of  one  — 
When  into  the  hall,  not  a  moment  late, 
Walks  Caesar  Rodney,  the  delegate. 

"  Not  a  moment  late  !  and  that  half-day's  ride 
Forwards  the  world  with  a  mighty  stride ; 
For  the  act  was  passed  :  ere  the  midnight  stroke 
O'er  the  Quaker  City  its  echoes  woke." 
91 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

It  is  pleasant  to  note,  in  this  iconoclastic  age,  that  the 
old  Rodney  house,  from  which  the  delegate  began  his 
famous  ride,  is  still  to  be  seen,  several  miles  back  of 
Dover.  It  stands  near  the  fine  mansion  once  owned  by 
John  Dickinson. 

Caesar  Rodney,  as  we  find  him  at  this  critical  time  in 
our  history,  is  a  genial  bachelor  with  vast  patriotism  and 
a  pleasant  wit.  He  has  had,  so  goes  the  gossip,  an  un- 
happy love  affair  with  another  Mary  Vining,  an  aunt  of 
our  heroine.  The  elder  lady  has  given  him  the  proverbial 
mitten  and  married  a  clergyman.  She  survives  this  mar- 
riage but  a  few  months,  and  Caesar  Rodney  is  left  to 
mourn  her  unto  his  life's  end,  as  he  will,  and  to  die,  as 
he  has  lived,  without  a  wife.  "  Molly,  I  love  you  from 
my  soul,"  he  once  wrote  to  her,  before  the  clergyman 
had  appeared  on  the  scene.  He  doubtless  cherished  this 
fond  sentiment  long  after  his  rival  was  left  a  widower. 

The  Mary  Vining  of  our  sketch  was  a  cousin  of  Rod- 
ney's, and  he  saw  in  her  grace  and  beauty  much  to  remind 
him  of  the  dead  aunt.  Thus,  when  the  statesman  was 
elected  governor  of  Delaware  during  the  darkest  days  of 
the  war,  he  was  glad  to  have  his  house  in  Wilmington 
presided  over  by  the  fascinating  niece.  Into  this  house 
(later  known  as  No.  606  Market  Street)  came  the  Marquis 
de  Lafayette,  who  ever  cherished  for  her  a  sort  of  fervent 
but  respectful  admiration.  He  was  a  married  man,  was 
the  Marquis,  and  his  attention  was  decorous.  Many  an- 
other French  officer  there  found,  in  the  charm  and  the 

93 


A       BELLE        OF        DELAWARE 

conversational  abilities  of  the  young  Delawarian,  quali- 
ties which  he  had  not  dreamed  could  exist  in  any  woman 
outside  of  the  court  of  Queen  Marie  Antoinette.  More 
than  one  of  the  visitors  laid  his  fortune — if  he  had  any — 
and  his  fluttering  heart  at  the  feet  of  Miss  Vining;  but 
she  laughed  them  off  with  a  good-nature  that  took  away 
half  the  sting  from  the  refusals.  We  can  see  her  as  she 
replies  gayly,  when  asked  why  she  is  so  obdurate:  "Ad- 
miration of  the  world  is  spoiling  me.  I  fear  I  could  not 
content  myself  with  the  admiration  of  one."  We  can 
hear  her,  too,  when  she  comes  radiantly  into  Caesar  Rod- 
ney's dining-room  as  some  officers,  through  with  their 
Madeira,  have  crowded  to  the  eastern  window  to  watch 
the  placid  waters  of  Christiana  Creek. 

"  Gentlemen,"  she  cries,  first  in  French  and  then  in 
English,  "that  lovely  stream  moving  languidly  amid  its 
green  banks  always  reminds  me  of  a  beautiful  coquette, 
now  coming  here,  now  turning  there,  in  playful  wayward- 
ness." She  turns  her  head,  gives  a  pretty  swirl  to  her 
fan,  and  smiles  roguishly.  The  gentlemen  are  enchanted. 
No  need  to  ask  them  who  is  the  real  coquette ;  it  is  not 
the  innocent  Christiana.  Again,  she  enters  the  drawing- 
room  where  one  of  her  cousins,  a  little  boy,  is  studying 
Latin  by  the  open  fire.  She  is  dressed  for  a  ball,  and  as 
she  goes  up  to  a  mirror,  and  looks  approvingly  at  her  re- 
flection, the  young  student  casts  upon  her  a  glance  of  in- 
voluntary admiration.  "  Come  here,  you  little  rogue," 
she  commands  imperiously,  "and  you  shall  kiss  my 

93 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

hand."  But  the  boy,  overcome  by  a  sudden  bashfulness, 
draws  back.  "You  should  be  glad  to  do  it,"  laughs  the 
girl,  and  she  quotes  a  line  from  Antony  and  Cleopatra : 

"  A  hand  that  kings  have  lipped." 

The  boy,  in  his  confusion,  says  nothing.  In  after 
years  he  regrets  his  want  of  gallantry,  and  recalls  Mary 
Vining  as  she  stood  before  him  as  a  "beautiful  picture." 
Had  she  lived  in  England,  in  the  days  of  the  Spectator, 
Addison  or  Dick  Steele  would  surely  have  enshrined  her 
in  some  immortal  essay. 

It  was  in  the  cellar  of  Rodney's  house  that  Lafayette 
stored  some  of  the  precious  gold  coin  which  he  had 
brought  from  France.  Rodney's  cousin  was  a  woman, 
but  she  never  told  the  secret.  When  the  Marquis  re- 
turned home  to  France  he  was  not  slow  to  speak  of  the 
attractions  of  Miss  Vining,  and  it  is  related  that  Marie 
Antoinette,  hearing  of  the  American's  beauty,  sent  her 
word  that  there  would  always  be  a  warm  welcome  for 
her  at  the  court  of  the  Tuilleries,  either  as  a  visitor  or  as  a 
maid  of  honor. 

But  Mary  Vining  did  more  than  turn  the  heads  of  the 
French,  the  allies  of  her  countrymen.  She  even  won  the 
heart — who  shall  dare  say  intentionally  ? — of  a  British  of- 
ficer who  risked  court-martial,  dishonor,  everything,  to 
get  one  look  at  her,  many  weeks  after  she  had  refused 
him.  It  was  in  the  spring  of  1778,  just  before  the  army 
of  the  invaders  was  to  evacuate  Philadelphia.  The 

94 


A       BELLE        OF       DELAWARE 

officer,  who  held  a  command  therein,  determined  to 
see  Miss  Vining  once  again.  Perhaps,  as  he  fondly 
thought,  she  would  not  always  hold  out  against  him. 
So  he  smuggled  himself  through  the  lines  one  after- 
noon, mounted  a  horse,  and  rode  off  to  Wilmington  at 
breakneck  speed  straight  into  the  enemy's  country.  It 
was  a  desperate  thing  to  do.  Discovery  of  his  absence 
by  the  British  meant  disgrace;  discovery  by  the  Ameri- 
cans along  his  route  meant  arrest,  and  possibly  execution 
as  a  spy ;  but  young  blood  is  not  to  be  restrained  by  such 
thoughts.  So  the  officer  sped  on  to  Wilmington,  in  some 
effective  disguise,  and  reached  the  home  of  Caesar  Rod- 
ney, one  of  his  own  country's  bitterest  foes,  late  in  the 
evening.  Who  shall  say  what  dangers  he  encountered 
before  he  stood  before  Mary  Vining  ?  One's  imagination 
can  picture  a  scene  worthy  of  a  Revolutionary  novel. 
All  we  know  is  that  the  impetuous  Briton  got  only  a 
stern  refusal  for  his  pains.  After  escaping  from  Wil- 
mington, perhaps  through  the  good-natured  connivance 
of  the  obstinate  girl,  he  succeeded  in  getting  back  to 
Philadelphia.  Miss  Vining  never  heard  of  any  trouble 
coming  to  him  through  this  escapade,  so  it  may  be  in- 
ferred that  his  rashness  met  with  no  punishment.  Let  us 
hope  that  he  survived  the  war,  to  reach  England  in 
safety. 

The  years  glided  on,  as  the  Revolution  triumphed  and 
the  sturdy  colonies,  released  from  British  aggression, 
emerged  proudly  into  the  arena  of  the  nations.  Wash- 

95 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

ington  was  now  President  of  the  United  States  of  Amer- 
ica. In  the  meantime  Miss  Vining  retained  her  beauty 
and  no  small  part  of  her  youthful  bloom,  and,  although 
she  was  getting  dangerously  near  the  middle-aged  period 
of  forty,  appeared  to  be  as  charming  as  ever.  So,  at 
least,  thought  General  Anthony  Wayne,  now  a  widower, 
for  he  fell  desperately  in  love  with  Mary  Vining,  in  his 
impetuous  way,  and  was  as  successful  with  her,  in  fol- 
lowing the  tender  passion,  as  he  had  been  in  the  more 
warlike  pursuit  of  charging  an  enemy.  It  is  even  hinted 
that  before  his  first  marriage  he  had  sighed,  as  only  an 
eighteenth-century  lover  could  sigh,  for  the  Wilmington 
belle,  but  that  he  had  not  then  made  any  impression  on 
her  adamantine  heart.  Be  that  as  it  may,  his  middle- 
aged  love-making  was  more  fortunate,  and  Miss  Vining, 
who  had  refused  many  a  French  cavalier,  said  "yes"  to 
this  daring  American  democrat. 

"Can  it  be  true,"  asked  Mrs.  Cadwalader,  widow  of 
the  Philadelphia  General,  "that  Miss  Vining  is  engaged 
to  General  Wayne?  Can  one  so  refined  marry  this 
coarse  soldier?  True,  he  is  brave,  wonderfully  brave, 
and  '  none  but  the  brave  deserve  the  fair.' " 

Yet  Wayne  was  something  more  than  a  "coarse 
soldier."  Nor  was  he  the  "Mad"  Anthony  which  some 
chroniclers  would  have  us  believe.  True,  he  had  not  the 
manners  of  a  courtier,  but  he  had  a  stout  heart  and  a 
rough-diamond  character  which  make  him  stand  out  as 
one  of  the  most  picturesque  figures  in  the  annals  of  the 

96 


A       BELLE        OF       DELAWARE 

olden  time.  It  was  to  Miss  Vining  that  the  General  cried, 
as  he  jumped  excitedly  from  his  chair,  after  hearing  her 
speak  of  the  crime  of  a  traitor:  "Madame,  had  I  been 
present  I  would  have  suicided  him! "  And  we  all  know 
the  anecdote,  which  deserves  to  be  true,  even  if  it  is  not, 
of  how  Wayne  said  to  Washington:  "I  am  not  only 

willing  to  storm  Stony  Point,  General,  but  I'll  storm 

if  you  will  only  plan  it."  Washington  is  reported  to 
have  answered,  with  just  the  suspicion  of  a  twinkle  in 
his  blue-gray  eyes:  "Hadn't  we  better  try  Stony  Point 
first?" 

There  is  still  in  existence  a  rare  old  set  of  India  china 
which  was  to  have  been  the  wedding  gift  of  General 
Wayne  to  his  intended  bride,  but  he  was  not  destined  to 
see  it  in  use.  For  "Mad"  Anthony  died  at  Presque  Isle, 
on  Lake  Erie,  in  the  middle  of  December,  1796,  of  the  un- 
romantic  complaint  of  gout  of  the  stomach.  Mary  Vining 
put  on  mourning  and  gave  up  her  old  gay  life,  and  all  the 
flattery  which  had  been  given  her  as  an  offering  of 
incense.  Thus  ended  her  last  romance.  A  middle-aged 
romance,  says  the  cynic.  Yes,  but  who  of  us  with  the 
crow's-feet  and  whitening  hair  shall  dare  to  say  that  there 
is  any  age-limit  to  affairs  of  the  heart  ? 

Had  Miss  Vining  consulted  the  dramatic  proprieties,  as 
observed  by  the  old-fashioned  novelists  before  alluded  to, 
she  would  have  died  then  and  there,  in  good  orthodox 
fashion.  But  she  went  on  living  for  another  quarter  of  a 
century,  as  old  friends  passed  from  the  world,  beauty 

97 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

fell  away,  and  poverty  came  to  her.  Herein  was  the 
real  tragedy  of  her  life.  Look  at  a  woman  once  rich, 
courted,  beautiful;  now  sadly  aged,  with  few  friends 
left,  and  in  such  sore  financial  straits  that  she  is  obliged 
to  turn  boarding-house  keeper.  Where  is  the  romance 
in  serving  tea  to  strangers,  or  showing  Abigail  or  Dorcas 
how  to  make  the  beds  ? 

Yet  Mistress  Vining  was  a  gentlewoman  to  the  end, 
and  there  always  remained  about  her  a  reflection  of  her 
past  glory.  Lafayette  corresponded  with  her  until  her 
death,  while  no  distinguished  foreigner  ever  passed 
through  Delaware  without  leaving  a  card  at  this  lady's 
house — boarders  or  no  boarders.  We  get  more  than 
one  pathetic  glimpse  of  the  declining  days  of  Miss 
Vining.  They  show  us  that  something  of  her  old  spirit 
(or  shall  we  call  it  pardonable  feminine  vanity?)  still 
clung  to  her,  like  a  phantom  of  the  realities  of  the  long- 
ago.  Her  fine  brown  hair  never  whitened,  nor  did  the 
dark  eyes  lose  their  youthful  sparkle,  but  Father  Time  un- 
gallantly  put  his  impress  on  her  face,  and  the  once 
willowy  form  began  to  bend.  So  the  poor  lady  was  fain 
to  receive  her  friends  in  a  darkened  room,  to  put  her 
handkerchief  before  her  mouth,  hiding  the  now  decrepit 
teeth  over  which  the  beaux  had  once  raved,  and  to 
muffle  her  features  in  a  great  veil  when  she  appeared 
upon  the  street.  It  is  only  the  "  new  woman  "  who  can 
stand  the  loss  of  beauty  with  equanimity — and  the  "new 
woman  "  seldom  has  any  to  lose. 


A       BELLE        OF        DELAWARE 

It  was  rarely,  indeed,  that  the  recluse  left  her  home  in 
Wilmington  and  those  prosaic  boarders.  One  evening 
the  congregation  of  Old  Swedes'  Church  was  startled  to 
see  her  moving  up  the  aisle,  leaning  gracefully  on  the 
arm  of  a  servant.  There  were  many  whispers  and 
nudges  from  the  assembled  worshipers.  "There  goes 
Miss  Vining,"  was  the  excited,  half  stifled  comment 
which  passed  among  them  like  a  ripple.  She  sat  down 
in  a  front  pew,  with  the  air  of  a  dethroned  queen,  and 
listened  to  the  service.  No  one  could  see  her  face.  Only 
the  back  of  her  mourning  gown  2: id  a  great  black  poke 
bonnet  were  visible.  "  We  shall  get  a  look  at  her  when 
she  comes  down  the  aisle,"  thought  the  congregation,  be- 
tween the  prayers.  But  Miss  Vining  had  no  intention 
that  people  should  say  of  her:  "Poor  thing!  How 
faded!  "  The  service  ended;  the  worshipers  craned  their 
necks,  as  she  came  down  the  aisle  with  the  servant,  in 
order  to  catch  one  glimpse  of  the  once  distinguished 
beauty.  But  they  were  disappointed,  for  her  face  was 
almost  completely  hidden  by  a  cap  with  a  wonderfully 
wide  ruffle.  "A  flash  from  dark  eyes,  and  a  view,  in 
deep  shadow,  of  the  tip  of  her  nose  and  chin,"  were  the 
only  things  apparent.  She  walked  quickly  home  to  her 
house  on  Kennet  Pike,  where  is  now  the  corner  of  Tenth 
and  Market  Streets. 

So  the  world  moved  on  prosaically  for  Mary  Vining 
until  a  day  in  the  early  spring  of  1821,  when  she  was 
laid  to  rest  in  Old  Swedes'  churchyard.  Six  girls  acted 

99 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

as  pallbearers,  as  if  to  show  that  May  could  pay  one 
final  tribute  to  December.  Not  one  of  them  had 
ever  looked  upon  her  face.  As  the  more  elderly 
mourners  left  the  burying-ground,  after  hearing  the 
solemn  "dust  to  dust"  of  the  clergyman,  they  gossiped 
softly  of  the  days  when  the  dead  woman  had  seemed  all 
life,  and  youth,  and  hope.  Before  the  service  the  six 
pallbearers  had  giggled  among  themselves.  They  saw 
not  the  tragedy  of  the  life  just  closed.  They  did  not  un- 
derstand, naturally  enough,  how  old  age,  and  wrinkles, 
and  disappointments,  could  be  realities.  To  them  the 
service  meant  only  another  old  lady  being  buried  in  the 
churchyard;  nothing  more. 


loo 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT  IN  LOVE 


Sbomas  Jefferson  as  a  tj?oun0 


R  a* 


V 
A     DISAPPOINTMENT     IN     LOVE 

IT  was  in  the  year  1760  when  Thomas  Jefferson,  a 
stripling  of  seventeen,  "tall,  raw-boned,  freckled 
and  sandy-haired,"  as  Parton  described  him,  came 
from  western  Virginia  to  enter  the  College  of  William 
and  Mary,  at  Williamsburg.  In  spite  of  his  large  feet 
and  hands,  thick  wrists  and  prominent  cheek-bones,  he 
was  a  bright,  attractive  youth,  "  as  straight  as  a  gun- 
barrel  sinewy  and  strong,  with  that  alertness  of  move- 
ment which  comes  of  easy  familiarity  with  saddle,  gun, 
canoe,  minuet,  and  contra-dance, — that  sure,  elastic  tread, 
and  ease  of  bearing,  which  we  still  observe  in  country- 
bred  lads  who  have  been  exempt  from  the  ruder  toils 
of  agriculture,  while  enjoying  in  full  measure  the  free- 
dom and  the  sports  of  the  country."  His  teeth  were 
faultless,  and  his  hazel-gray  eyes  indicated  a  gentle 
character  and  a  sympathetic  yet  keenly  analytic  mind. 

"Tom"  Jefferson,  through  the  death  of  his  father,  had 
already  become  the  head  of  his  family,  and  the  virtual 
owner  of  the  "Shadwell  Farm,"  in  the  mountains  a 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  to  the  northwest  of  quaint 
Williamsburg.  He  was  of  that  sturdy,  honest  yeoman 
stock  which  has  given  so  many  fine  specimens  of  man- 

103 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

hood  to  the  cause  of  American  patriotism,  and  there  was 
a  deal  of  shrewd,  energetic  Welsh  blood  coursing 
through  his  veins.  The  young  student  at  William  and 
Mary  had,  In  fact,  no  pretensions  to  aristocracy,  unless 
it  might  be  from  his  good  mother's  side  of  the  house. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  Isham  Randolph,  an  old-time 
Virginia  lord  of  the  manor,  who  owned  an  immense 
tobacco  plantation  on  the  River  James,  and  who  thought, 
no  doubt,  that  when  he  allowed  his  seventeen-year-old 
daughter  to  marry  Peter  Jefferson,  an  humble  land- 
surveyor,  he  was  acting  with  a  fine  show  of  condescen- 
sion. Old  Randolph  lived  in  true  manorial  style  in  his 
colonial  mansion,  keeping  a  hundred  servants  or  more, 
so  that  his  daughter,  Mistress  Jefferson,  never  forgot  the 
wealth  and  the  breeding  of  her  father.  Perhaps  that  is 
why  her  son  Thomas,  play  he  the  democrat  as  he  did  in 
after  life,  could  never  quite  convince  people  that  his 
studied  carelessness  of  dress  and  an  affectation. of  equally 
careless  manners  were  altogether  sincere.  Man  never  for- 
gets his  genealogy. 

At  the  time  that  young  Jefferson  reached  Williamsburg 
the  town  was  nothing  more  than  a  straggling  village  of 
one  long  street,  with  the  Capitol  of  Virginia  at  one  end, 
the  College  at  the  other,  and  a  ten-acre  square,  on  which 
were  erected  certain  public  buildings,  in  the  middle.  It 
was  not  a  very  impressive  town,  according  to  our 
modern  ideas;  yet  it  was  considered  in  the  old  days, 
when  our  ancestors  paid  their  allegiance  to  King  George 

104 


A    DISAPPOINTMENT     IN     LOVE 

III,  as  a  very  gay  resort.  With  its  one  thousand  inhab- 
itants, many  of  whom  were  persons  of  quality,  it  was  said 
to  be  the  "centre  of  taste,  fashion  and  refinement."  In 
the  winter,  when  the  Virginia  Assembly  was  in  session 
there,  Williamsburg  was  crowded  with  the  gentry  of  the 
colony,  and  frequent  were  the  balls  and  routs  at  which 
well-dressed  cavaliers  and  richly  habited  ladies 
(whose  costumes  had  been  imported  from  London) 
joined  in  the  country  dance  or  the  more  stately  minuet. 
On  a  clear  day  the  one  street  echoed  with  the  sound  of 
wheels  and  the  cracking  of  whips,  as  the  families  of  the 
planters  dashed  past  in  handsome  coaches  (likewise  im- 
ported from  London),  drawn  by  four  or  six  stout  horses. 
The  Capitol  itself  was  a  "light  and  airy  structure"  as 
young  Master  Jefferson  thought  it;  the  "palace"  of  the 
Governor  of  the  Colony  was  large,  comfortable,  and  ir- 
retrievably ugly,  and  the  College  buildings  presented  a 
plain  but  respectable  appearance.  If  we  add  to  these 
public  institutions  a  number  of  private  houses,  built  of 
wood  and  shingles,  and  the  necessary  accompaniment  of 
negro  hovels,  we  have  the  fair  Virginian  capital  for  the 
sight  of  which  so  many  maidens  of  the  Old  Dominion 
sighed.  For  to  the  provincial  lass  who  chanced  to  live 
South  of  Maryland,  Williamsburg  was  the  same  sort  of 
social  Paradise  that  New  York  or  Paris  now  seems  to  the 
girl  who  inhabits  some  prairie  city  far  west  of  the  Alle- 
ghany  Mountains. 
William  and  Mary  College  was  then  anything  but  an 

105 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

ideal  fountain  of  learning.  Its  curriculum  was  poor,  and 
some  of  the  professors  led  lives  that  would  appear  to  us 
utterly  inconsistent  with  their  intellectual  work.  They 
were,  for  the  most  part,  gentlemen  of  sporting  pro- 
clivity, who  liked  their  dogs,  their  horses,  and  their  wine 
far  better  than  they  did  their  avowed  mission  of  teaching. 
If  the  master  of  Shadwell  managed  to  receive  learning 
from  this  Alma  Mater,  despite  the  influence  of  so  many 
dissolute  teachers,  it  was  because  of  the  presence  in  the 
faculty  of  a  certain  Scotchman,  the  professor  of  mathe- 
matics, who  took  a  great  fancy  to  Thomas  and  incited 
him  to  study  as  few  other  students  of  the  College  troubled 
themselves  to  do.  And  so  the  youth  worked  hard,  drink- 
ing in  all  sorts  of  education,  from  mathematics,  which  he 
called  "the  passion  of  his  life,"  to  the  irreligious  disser- 
tations of  the  French  philosophers,  Voltaire  and  the  rest, 
whose  views  were  fast  becoming  fashionable  in  the 
English-speaking  world.  He  read  law,  too,  and  cast 
many  a  glance  at  "Coke  on  Littleton,"  as  he  fondly 
dreamed  of  a  great  future  for  himself  as  a  distinguished 
colonial  jurist.  No  thought  yet  of  a  Declaration  of  In- 
dependence. 

But  as  we  look  at  this  lank,  freckle-faced  youth,  who 
pores  over  his  figures  and  old  Littleton,  do  we  merely 
see  in  him  the  interested  student,  with  no  more  heart 
than  that  possessed  by  a  bookworm?  Not  a  bit  of  it  I 
The  heart  that  beats  under  Master  Tom's  waistcoat  is  going 
at  a  furious  rate  of  speed  whenever  he  thinks— not  of 

106 


A    DISAPPOINTMENT     IN     LOVE 

Littleton,  but  of  a  certain  lovely  young  lady!  For  the 
hero  who  will  live  to  write  the  immortal  Declaration  of 
Independence,  and  view  life  and  humanity  with  a  phil- 
osophical serenity  is  as  hopelessly  in  love  as  ever  was 
any  cavalier  of  old.  It  is  the  first  time,  too,  that  the 
malady  has  afflicted  him.  It  goes  all  the  harder  with  him 
in  consequence. 

And  who  is  the  young  lady  ?  Why,  Miss  Rebecca 
Burwell,  a  strikingly  beautiful  Virginian  of  good  family 
and  fair  expectations.  But  young  Jefferson  cares  nothing 
for  her  expectations.  He  only  knows  that  he  loves  her 
as  man  never  loved  woman  before — of  course — and  that 
she  has  the  sweetest  face  he  has  ever  gazed  upon.  Then 
what  exquisite  grace!  How  charmingly  does  she  tread 
the  minuet  in  the  dancing  room  of  the  Raleigh  Tavern. 
Some  of  the  Williamsburgers,  base  cynics  that  they  are, 
whisper  that  Miss  Burwell's  attractions  are  all  in  her  face 
and  figure;  that  she  is  not  mentally  brilliant;  that  she 
has  not  one  thousandth  part  of  the  brain  of  Master  Tom. 
But  what  cares  the  latter  for  all  that  ?  When  a  lover  is 
filled  with  visions  of  his  first  love  he  thinks  of  the  glance 
of  her  eye,  the  brightness  of  her  smile,  the  curve  of  her 
mouth — of  anything,  in  fine,  save  the  powers  of  her 
mind.  There  is  never  any  consideration  of  intellectuality 
in  our  youthful  experience  with  love.  Young  Cupid 
does  not  go  about  searching  for  blue-stockings.  The 
bachelor  of  fifty  may  do  that  if  he  so  desires,  but  the  lad 
of  seventeen — never. 

107 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

•We  are  not  surprised  that  the  time  passes  so  pleasantly 
for  the  student.  No  wonder  that  he  ends  by  thinking 
Williamsburg  a  bewitching  spot.  The  longer  he  stays 
there  the  more  he  can  see  of  Rebecca.  But  at  last  (he 
wonders  how  he  can  live  afterwards)  he  must  end  his 
college  days  at  William  and  Mary,  and  return  to  his 
home.  It  is  the  Christmas  season  of  1762,  when,  with  a 
sad  heart,  he  departs  from  Williamsburg.  When  will  he 
see  Rebecca  again  ?  Does  she  love  him  ?  Dare  he  ask 
her  ?  These  are  some  of  the  questions  that  torment  him 
with  a  sort  of  pleasant  bitterness  as  he  travels  home- 
ward. The  landscape  is  bleak  enough,  but  he  feels 
bleaker  himself  than  all  the  snow-covered  hills  of 
Virginia.  He  does  his  best,  when  visiting  at  the  house  of 
a  friend  on  his  way  to  Shadwell,  to  cultivate  a  Christmas 
joy,  and  to  be  a  truly  gay  participant  in  the  festivities  of 
the  season.  He  tries  to  laugh  and  talk  and  plays  his 
violin  while  the  young  women  dance  some  new  minuet- 
figures.  Alas,  the  sweet  creatures  only  remind  him  of  the 
absent  Mistress  Burwell  and  he  can  but  sigh  when  he 
should  be  merry.  He  is  so  dreary  that  he  cannot  even 
read  the  once  admired  "Coke  on  Littleton."  He  actually 
writes  to  John  Page,  a  college  friend,  that  Coke  should  be 
consigned  to  the  tender  mercies  of  His  Most  Satanic 
Majesty.  Surely  the  lover,  "  sighing  like  furnace,"  can 
have  no  affinity  with  the  dry  crotchets  of  prosaic  law. 

As  if  to  increase  his  gloom  at  this  season  of  cheer,  a 
"watch-paper,"  which  Rebecca  has  cut  and  painted  for 

108 


A    DISAPPOINTMENT     IN     LOVE 

him,  is  ruined  by  the  rain.  While  he  sleeps  at  night, 
dreaming,  we  may  venture  to  fancy,  of  the  absent  one, 
the  rain  comes  in  through  window  or  crevice,  and  when 
he  awakes  in  the  morning  he  finds  his  timepiece  swim- 
ming in  a  pool  of  water.  As  he  writes  pathetically  to 
John  Page:  "The  subtle  particles  of  the  water  with 
which  the  case  was  filled,  had,  by  their  penetration,  so 
overcome  the  cohesion  of  the  particles  of  the  paper  of 
which  my  dear  picture  and  watch-paper  were  composed, 
that,  in  attempting  to  take  them  out  to  dry  them — good 
God !  Mens  horret  referre  ! — my  fingers  gave  them  such 
a  rent  as  1  fear  /  never  shall  get  over."  Had  there  been 
an  earthquake,  in  which  half  the  world  had  crumbled 
away,  Thomas  Jefferson  could  not  have  been  more  hor- 
rified. What  is  the  destruction  of  half  the  universe  to 
the  destruction  of  a  watch-paper  suggesting  the  lovely 
face  of  Rebecca  Burwell?  He  continues:  "And  now, 
although  the  picture  may  be  defaced,  there  is  so  lively  an 
image  of  her  imprinted  in  my  mind,  that  I  shall  think  of 
her  too  often,  I  fear,  for  my  peace  of  mind,  and  too  often, 
I  am  sure,  to  get  through  old  Coke  this  winter."  Old 
Coke,  forsooth. 

Is  Thomas  Jefferson,  future  statesman  and  President  of 
the  United  States,  actually  love-sick ?  Yes;  there  is  no 
denying  the  truth  when  the  loss  of  a  watch-paper  will 
cause  a  young  fellow  such  exquisite  agony.  Has  there 
never  been  a  time,  gentle  reader,  when  you  were  ill  in  the 
same  way  ? 

109 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

-  We  are  not  surprised  that  the  time  passes  so  pleasantly 
for  the  student.  No  wonder  that  he  ends  by  thinking 
Williamsburg  a  bewitching  spot.  The  longer  he  stays 
there  the  more  he  can  see  of  Rebecca.  But  at  last  (he 
wonders  how  he  can  live  afterwards)  he  must  end  his 
college  days  at  William  and  Mary,  and  return  to  his 
home.  It  is  the  Christmas  season  of  1762,  when,  with  a 
sad  heart,  he  departs  from  Williamsburg.  When  will  he 
see  Rebecca  again  ?  Does  she  love  him  ?  Dare  he  ask 
her  ?  These  are  some  of  the  questions  that  torment  him 
with  a  sort  of  pleasant  bitterness  as  he  travels  home- 
ward. The  landscape  is  bleak  enough,  but  he  feels 
bleaker  himself  than  all  the  snow-covered  hills  of 
Virginia.  He  does  his  best,  when  visiting  at  the  house  of 
a  friend  on  his  way  to  Shadwell,  to  cultivate  a  Christmas 
joy,  and  to  be  a  truly  gay  participant  in  the  festivities  of 
the  season.  He  tries  to  laugh  and  talk  and  plays  his 
violin  while  the  young  women  dance  some  new  minuet- 
figures.  Alas,  the  sweet  creatures  only  remind  him  of  the 
absent  Mistress  Burwell  and  he  can  but  sigh  when  he 
should  be  merry.  He  is  so  dreary  that  he  cannot  even 
read  the  once  admired  "Coke  on  Littleton."  He  actually 
writes  to  John  Page,  a  college  friend,  that  Coke  should  be 
consigned  to  the  tender  mercies  of  His  Most  Satanic 
Majesty.  Surely  the  lover,  "  sighing  like  furnace,"  can 
have  no  affinity  with  the  dry  crotchets  of  prosaic  law. 

As  if  to  increase  his  gloom  at  this  season  of  cheer,  a 
"watch-paper,"  which  Rebecca  has  cut  and  painted  for 

108 


A    DISAPPOINTMENT     IN     LOVE 

him,  is  ruined  by  the  rain.  While  he  sleeps  at  night, 
dreaming,  we  may  venture  to  fancy,  of  the  absent  one, 
the  rain  comes  in  through  window  or  crevice,  and  when 
he  awakes  in  the  morning  he  finds  his  timepiece  swim- 
ming in  a  pool  of  water.  As  he  writes  pathetically  to 
John  Page:  "The  subtle  particles  of  the  water  with 
which  the  case  was  filled,  had,  by  their  penetration,  so 
overcome  the  cohesion  of  the  particles  of  the  paper  of 
which  my  dear  picture  and  watch-paper  were  composed, 
that,  in  attempting  to  take  them  out  to  dry  them— good 
God!  Mens  horret  referre  ! — my  fingers  gave  them  such 
a  rent  as  I  fear  /  never  shall  get  over."  Had  there  been 
an  earthquake,  in  which  half  the  world  had  crumbled 
away,  Thomas  Jefferson  could  not  have  been  more  hor- 
rified. What  is  the  destruction  of  half  the  universe  to 
the  destruction  of  a  watch-paper  suggesting  the  lovely 
face  of  Rebecca  Burwell?  He  continues:  "And  now, 
although  the  picture  may  be  defaced,  there  is  so  lively  an 
image  of  her  imprinted  in  my  mind,  that  I  shall  think  of 
her  too  often,  I  fear,  for  my  peace  of  mind,  and  too  often, 
I  am  sure,  to  get  through  old  Coke  this  winter."  Old 
Coke,  forsooth. 

Is  Thomas  Jefferson,  future  statesman  and  President  of 
the  United  States,  actually  love-sick  ?  Yes;  there  is  no 
denying  the  truth  when  the  loss  of  a  watch-paper  will 
cause  a  young  fellow  such  exquisite  agony.  Has  there 
never  been  a  time,  gentle  reader,  when  you  were  ill  in  the 
same  way  ? 

109 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

before  it  does  fall,  but  we  may  add  to  its  force  after  it 
has  fallen."  In  short,  he  hopes  to  have  a  "pious  and 
unshaken  resignation."  These  are  good  words  for  a 
man  who  will,  in  later  life,  be  branded  as  an  infidel  by 
some  of  his  contemporaries. 

At  last — joyous  chance — there  comes  an  opportunity 
when  Thomas  Jefferson  can  once  more  see  "Belinda" 
face  to  face.  How  his  poor  heart  throbs  at  the  thought! 
He  has  gone  to  Williamsburg  to  attend  the  sessions  of 
the  General  Court,  like  a  dutiful  law-student  (possibly 
also  as  an  ardent  lover).  At  a  ball  in  the  Raleigh  Tavern 
he  meets  the  siren  who,  we  may  shrewdly  suspect,  has 
been  enjoying  herself  these  many  moons  without  giving 
more  than  a  passing  thought  to  poor  Tom.  There  are 
all  sorts  of  dances  at  the  ball,  and  we  can  see  the  shy 
glance  of  the  lover  as  he  touches  the  hand  of  pretty  Re- 
becca Burwell  when  the  two  glide  through  the  stately 
figures  of  a  minuet.  How  the  color  must  come  and 
go  in  that  freckled,  expressive  face  of  his.  How  im- 
passive is  the  look  that  comes  from  the  beautiful  eyes  of 
"  Belinda."  Will  the  dancing  never  stop,  so  that  he  may 
take  the  girl  into  some  convenient  corner,  there  to  pour 
into  her  ears  his  hopes,  fears,  and  all  the  sufferings  of 
the  past  months  ?  What  a  mockery,  he  must  think,  is 
all  this  merrymaking  when  one  man's  heart  is  nigh  to 
breaking. 

After  a  while  there  is  a  lull  in  the  dancing.     Happy 

yet  fearful  moment!     He  leads  Mistress  Burwell  to  a 

113 


A    DISAPPOINTMENT     IN     LOVE 

place  away  from  the  dancers.  Now  he  will  tell  her  all, 
and  ask  her  the  one  question  that  is  worth  the  asking. 
But  what  a  ghastly  failure  he  makes  of  it,  to  be  sure. 
He  tries  to  say  something  eloquent,  yet  only  manages  to 
stammer  a  few  broken  sentences,  relieved  by  horrible 
pauses,  and  he  feels,  as  a  sickening  shudder  runs  up  and 
down  his  spine,  that  he  is  making  a  very  great  fool  of 
himself.  "Belinda"  looks  at  him  helplessly.  She  can 
neither  accept  nor  refuse  a  man  who  has  not  the  nerve 
to  put  his  proposal  into  plain  English.  He  leads  her 
back,  at  last,  to  the  dancers.  Timidity  has  conquered 
the  man  who,  in  a  few  years,  will  not  hesitate  to  defy  all 
the  might  and  power  of  tyrannical  England. 

In  a  few  days  he  tries  again.  His  courage  will  not 
enable  him  to  ask  the  lady  outright  whether  she  will  be 
his  wife,  but  he  circles  around  the  subject,  and  hints  that 
at  some  future  time  he  will  ask  for  her  hand.  How  can 
the  poor  girl  say  "Yes  "to  such  a  hint,  even  if  she  is 
anxious  so  to  do?  And  if  she  wants  to  say  "No," 
merely  to  put  the  boy  out  of  his  misery  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, she  must  also  keep  silent,  in  the  face  of  so  much 
bashfulness  and  indirection.  Yet  there  is  that  in  her 
manner  which  tells  Jefferson  that  all  his  longing  and 
heart-sickness  have  been  in  vain.  He  finds,  at  last,  that 
he  is  too  late;  the  heart  of  Rebecca  Burwell  has  been 
given  to  another.  Fool  that  he  was,  thinks  Tom  to  him- 
self. Perhaps,  had  he  hastened  to  Williamsburg  before 

this,  he  might  have  ousted  the  successful  rival;  but  noth- 

113 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

ing  can  prevent  him  now  from  considering  himself  the 
most  miserable  man  in  all  the  wide  world.  He  can 
never  again  look  into  a  woman's  face  with  pleasure. 
His  future  has  nothing  more  in  store  for  him.  His  life  is 
a  hopeless,  forlorn  wreck.  He  is  exactly  what  many 
another  young  fellow  before  and  since  has  considered 
himself  to  be. 

A  few  months  after  the  ball  at  the  Raleigh  Tavern 
Miss  Rebecca  Burwell  is  married  to  the  more  favored 
suitor  and  Thomas  is  left  heart-broken.  John  Page,  who 
has  likewise  had  his  own  love  affair,  is  jilted  by  another 
cruel  maiden.  Mr.  Page,  like  a  true  philosopher,  at  once 
begins  upon  a  new  flirtation.  Jefferson,  however,  can 
not  think  of  such  inconstancy.  He  vows  that  his  heart 
is  "dead  to  love  forever."  Williamsburg  no  longer  has 
for  him  the  slightest  charm.  He  hates  the  sight  of  it  so 
much  that  he  calls  it  "  Devilsburg." 

Yet  it  remained  for  Jefferson,  like  thousands  of  other 
hapless  swains,  to  find  out  that  first  loves  are  by  no 
means  fatal  maladies.  He  went  on  studying  law,  and 
woke  up,  one  fine  morning,  to  discover  that  the  load 
upon  his  bruised  heart  had  quite  gone.  It  was  still  hard 
to  think  of  "Belinda"  without  tender  regret,  yet  the 
world  did  not  seem  desolate  any  more,  and  the  old  high 
ambitions,  which  had  once  surged  so  manfully  in  his 
breast,  began  to  reappear.  This  was  the  first  sign  of  a 
return  to  normal  conditions.  After  a  time  he  could  even 
think  of  the  false  one  without  a  tremor.  Then,  a  little 

114 


A    DISAPPOINTMENT     IN     LOVE 

later,  he  began  to  dance  at  other  people's  weddings  with 
smiling  face,  and  perhaps  encountered  among  the  guests, 
and  without  a  sigh  of  regret,  the  sweet  features  of 
"Belinda." 

It  was  not  long  ere  Jefferson  began  to  take  pleasure  in 
assuming  the  simple  duties  of  a  country  gentleman.  He 
became  a  justice  of  the  peace  and  a  vestryman  of  his 
parish.  These  were  positions  which,  had  he  still  been  a 
romantic  swain,  he  would  have  scorned  to  seek. 
Furthermore,  he  settled  down  into  a  practical  farmer 
with  as  much  zest  as  if  he  had  never  known  anything 
about  Cupid,  and  he  put  his  whole  heart  into  the  work. 
He  went  on  studying  law,  was  finally  admitted  to  the 
bar,  and  took  interest,  also,  in  that  profession.  Then  he 
became  a  member  of  the  Virginia  Legislature.  Still  he 
remained  a  bachelor.  Had  his  experience  with  "Be- 
linda "  given  him  a  distaste  for  matrimony  ?  No  doubt 
that  question  was  often  asked  in  the  part  of  Virginia 
where  he  was  already  so  well  known  and  so  deeply  re- 
spected. He  had,  indeed,  once  said  to  John  Page  that  if 
Rebecca  Burwell  refused  him  he  would  never  offer  him- 
self to  another. 

But  the  day  came  when  Thomas  Jefferson  fell  in  love 
for  a  second  time,  and  more  successfully.  Perhaps  it 
was  a  quieter  passion  than  the  one  he  had  had  for  "  Be- 
linda," and  therefore  perhaps  deeper  as  well,  for  there 
was  no  denying  the  sincerity  of  his  love  for  Mistress 
Martha  Skelton,  a  beautiful  widow  of  twenty-two,  child- 

115 


ROMANCES    OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

less,  and  the  daughter  of  his  friend  and  fellow-lawyer, 
John  Wayles.  She  was  fond  of  music;  so  was  Jeffer- 
son. She  played  delightfully  on  the  spinet;  he  had  a 
pretty  skill  with  the  violin.  They  played  together  when 
Jefferson  would  go  over  to  visit  her  father  on  his  planta- 
tion, "The  Forest,"  and  played  so  well  together  that  it 
was  finally  agreed  they  might  prove  equally  harmonious 
in  a  lifelong  duet.  The  young  Virginian,  who  had  now 
developed  into  a  good-looking  man,  and  had  lost  the 
rawness  of  his  William  and  Mary  days,  proposed  with 
all  necessary  gallantry.  He  was  duly  accepted.  On 
New  Year's  Day  of  1772,  the  two  were  married  at  "The 
Forest,"  with  the  assistance  of  several  clergymen  and  an 
abundance  of  music.  Soon  afterwards  they  started  out,  by 
way  of  a  honeymoon,  on  a  wintry  trip  to  Monticello,  the 
new  home  of  the  groom.  As  they  proceeded  on  their 
journey  towards  the  mountains  the  snow  increased,  until 
their  carriage  could  no  longer  move.  Finally  they  had  to 
leave  the  coach  in  a  drift,  and  mount  the  horses.  When, 
at  last,  they  reached  Monticello,  it  was  late  at  night,  cold 
and  dreary,  and  all  the  servants  had  gone  to  bed.  The 
fires  were  out;  the  inside  of  the  new  house  was  dismal 
and  freezing.  But  Love  laughs  at  such  trifles.  They 
burst  open  the  door  and  rekindled  the  fires,  and  thus, 
with  great  good  humor,  their  housekeeping  began. 

Mrs.  Jefferson  is  described  as  a  radiant  creature,  with 
pretty  coloring  and  expressive  features,  a  great  mass  of 
auburn  hair,  and  a  graceful  figure  and  deportment.  She 

116 


A    DISAPPOINTMENT     IN     LOVE 

was  a  woman  of  mind,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  far 
more  fit  to  be  a  constant  companion  for  her  husband  than 
would  have  been  the  elusive  "  Belinda."  She  was  fond 
of  literature,  which  was  something  that  most  Virginia 
ladies  then  cared  little  about,  and  her  voice  was  pleasant 
to  listen  to  as  she  accompanied  herself  on  the  spinet  or 
harpsichord.  The  good  lady  lived  until  1782,  when  she 
died  four  months  after  giving  birth  to  her  sixth  child. 
As  she  was  sinking  she  solemnly  asked  her  husband 
'never  to  marry  again,  for  the  sake  of  their  children.  He 
gave  her  the  promise,  and  kept  it.  He  had  loved  her 
well :  when  she  was  gone  he  was  almost  crazed.  He 
staggered  from  the  room  into  his  library,  where  he 
fainted.  For  a  time  it  was  feared  that  he,  too,  had 
passed  away.  The  family  placed  his  apparently  in- 
animate body  on  a  cot.  In  a  few  minutes  the  stricken 
man  revived,  only  to  go  off  the  same  night  into  a  perfect 
frenzy  of  grief.  For  three  weeks  he  stayed  in  one  room, 
attended  by  his  little  daughter,  Martha.  Day  and  night 
he  would  walk  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  like  a  caged 
lion.  When,  at  last,  he  emerged  from  his  room  it  was 
to  roam  about  the  country,  like  some  desolate  spirit  who 
could  never  know  happiness  more.  Time  finally  healed 
the  wound,  and  new  attention  to  public  duties  brought 
solace  and  gradual  contentment.  But  the  woman  whose 
death  could  cause  such  despair  must  have  been  worthy 
the  love  of  such  a  man. 
Forgotten  Rebecca  Burwell !  You  were,  after  all,  only 

117 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

an  example  of  the  truth  that  a  man's  first  love  is  an  ill- 
ness which  may  seem  fatal  but  which  often  only  turns 
out  to  be  a  passing  indisposition.  Jefferson  lived  to  look 
back  smilingly  at  his  one-time  passion.  "Belinda" 
became  to  him  nothing  save  a  shadow.  Yet  we  wonder 
if,  when  life  was  nearly  spent  and  the  old  man  sat  by 
the  fire  in  his  library  at  Monticello,  he  ever  called  to 
mind  the  old  days  in  Williamsburg.  Perhaps  in  thought 
he  grew  young  once  more  and  saw  Rebecca's  face 
shining  at  him  from  the  embers. 


118 


CONSPIRACIES  AND  CUPID 


wsff 


VI 
CONSPIRACIES       AND      CUPID 

IT  was  in  the  early  thirties  of  the  eighteenth  century 
that  there  came  to  the  good  town  of  New  York,  to 
rule  in  due  state  as  Governor  of  the  whole  colony, 
a  certain  Englishman  by  adoption  and  Irishman  by  birth, 
one  Colonel  William  Cosby.  The  townsmen  were  already 
loyal  to  the  English  government,  although  many  of  them 
had  the  blood  of  the  sturdy  Dutch  in  their  veins,  and  it 
might  be  supposed  that  they  would  be  ready  to  extend  a 
cordial  welcome  to  the  new  functionary.  But  as  they 
had  undergone  unpleasant  experiences  with  at  least  two 
of  their  Governors  from  England,  the  New  Yorkers  were 
wary.  They  remembered,  for  instance,  the  meteoric 
career  of  Edward  Hyde,  Lord  Cornbury,  who  had  come 
over  to  their  town  in  1702,  and  of  whom  weird  stories 
were  still  told  in  tavern  and  drawing-room.  Would 
Colonel  Cosby  prove  to  be  a  second  Cornbury  ? 

Lord  Cornbury,  who  was  a  cousin  of  "good  Queen 
Anne,"  through  his  relationship  to  her  mother,  was  a 
worthless  profligate,  heavily  burdened  with  debt.  He 
was  sent  over  to  America  to  retrieve  his  fortunes,  at  the 
expense,  of  course,  of  the  unfortunate  people  of  Man- 
hattan Island.  His  wife,  who  prided  herself  upon  a 

121 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY    AMERICA 

beautiful  ear  (which  had  been  fair  enough,  she  said,  to 
make  my  Lord  fall  in  love  with  her)  had  as  lean  a  purse 
and  as  expensive  habits  as  her  aristocratic  husband. 
Ostentation  was  her  god,  and  while  she  may  have  affected 
to  look  down  upon  the  good  Dutch  families  of  New  York 
she  was  very  anxious,  notwithstanding,  to  impress  them 
with  the  proper  idea  of  her  grandeur.  But  how  is  one  to 
distil  grandeur  without  the  necessary  ingredient  of  gold  ? 
She  was  neither  the  first,  nor  the  last,  to  ask  herself  this 
question. 

After  thinking  deeply  upon  the  matter  Lady  Cornbury, 
who  was  never  troubled  in  all  her  life  by  over-delicacy 
or  conscientious  scruple,  hit  upon  an  ingenious  expedient. 
In  the  meantime,  after  her  arrival  in  New  York,  she 
charmed  "  society,"  as  we  would  now  term  it,  by  the  ex- 
treme condescension  of  her  manners.  She  and  her  noble 
husband  seemed  to  vie  one  with  the  other  in  doing  all  they 
could  to  be  gracious  to  their  new  subjects.  In  return  for 
this  politeness  the  great  ladies  of  the  town,  among  them 
Madame  Van  Courtlandt,  treated  them  to  a  series  of 
dinners,  at  which  the  Governor  drank  unlimited  wine  and 
professed  himself  greatly  benefited  and  pleased  by  the 
vintages  that  were  spread  out  before  him  on  the 
hospitable  boards.  So  far,  so  good.  It  began  to  look  as 
if  the  sojourn  of  the  couple  was  to  resolve  itself  into  a 
kind  of  political  honeymoon,  or  a  love-feast. 

But  watch  the  cunning  scheme  of  my  Lady  Cornbury. 
She  soon  announced  that  she  was  desirous,  in  order  to 

122 


CONSPIRACIES    AND    CUPID 

give  tclat  to  her  position,  to  select  from  among  the  New 
York  maidens  a  number  of  "ladies  of  honor,"  who  were 
to  reside  with  her  in  the  Governor's  mansion.  Where- 
upon the  daughters  of  the  first  families  were  thrown  into 
a  veritable  flutter  of  pleasant  anticipation.  What  joy! 
They  had  heard  of  queens  who  had  maids  of  honor,  and 
here  was  the  relative  of  a  queen  who  projected  a  minia- 
ture court  of  her  own!  The  thought  was  dazzling.  So 
the  lucky  girls  who  were  invited,  much  to  the  envy  of  the 
unlucky  ones,  to  reside  with  Lady  Cornbury  went  into 
as  great  transports  of  delight  as  their  somewhat  phleg- 
matic dispositions  would  permit.  They  hastened  to  the 
gubernatorial  residence  to  play  their  ornamental  parts. 

The  parts,  alas,  were  not  to  be  ornamental.  The 
maids  of  honor  soon  found  that  their  economical  mistress 
was  too  poor  to  keep  regular  servants,  and  that  they 
were  expected  to  do  all  the  menial  work  of  the  house, 
even  to  acting,  on  occasion,  as  cooks  and  scullions. 
Thus  vanished  all  their  visions  of  semi-regal  splendor. 
Their  one  idea  now  was— to  get  away  from  my  Lady 
Cornbury. 

That,  however,  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  do.  My 
Lady,  being  a  common,  ill-bred  shrew,  was  unwilling  to 
part  with  domestics  to  whom  she  had  to  pay  no  wages. 
At  the  mere  mention  of  departure  she  would  sometimes 
pounce,  with  all  the  ferocity  of  a  virago,  upon  the  poor 
disappointed  fraulems,  and  forbid  them  to  leave  the  house. 
This  system  of  forcible  detention  went  on  until  it  became 

123 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

necessary  for  the  parents  of  the  maids  of  honor  to  take 
them  away  in  the  very  face  of  loud,  vulgar  protests  from 
the  lady.  Then,  after  calling  the  retiring  maids  all  sorts 
of  hard  names,  she  enticed  other  girls  into  her  house. 
The  newcomers,  however,  fared  no  better,  and  Lady 
Cornbury  soon  found  that  her  ingenious  scheme  for 
saving  the  hire  of  servants  had  come  to  naught.  From 
being  the  most  popular  woman  in  New  York  she  quickly 
became  the  most  unpopular  of  them  all. 

The  Governor,  too,  quickly  descended  from  his  high 
estate,  and  made  of  himself  a  public  scandal.  Once, 
after  a  drinking-bout,  he  dressed  himself  in  his  wife's 
clothes  and  paraded  up  and  down  the  then  rustic  Broad- 
way. It  was  night,  and  the  moon  was  out.  So  up- 
roarious did  he  wax  that  the  officer  of  the  watch  arrested 
him  as  an  intoxicated  vagrant.  The  guard  was  "amazed 
beyond  description  when  he  found  that  his  prisoner  was 
none  other  than  the  Governor  of  the  province,  in  a 
highly  hilarious  condition;  and  the  watchman  could 
scarcely  be  induced  to  release  his  Excellency,  as  he  con- 
sidered it  the  duty  of  the  watch  to  carry  all  prisoners  to 
the  guard-house,  no  matter  what  was  their  degree."1 

No  wonder  that  all  the  respectable  people  would  have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  the  Governor  and  his  wife.  But 
Lady  Cornbury,  as  shameless  as  she  was  impecunious, 
hit  upon  another  expedient  for  swindling.  She  would 

i  Vide  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer's  attractive  Goede  Vrouw  of  Mana-ha-ta, 
Smith's  History  of  New  York,  etc. 

124 


CONSPIRACIES     AND     CUPID 

drive  up  in  her  handsome  coach  to  some  prosperous- 
looking  home,  alight  in  great  state,  chat  for  a  little  time 
with  the  occupants,  and  then,  with  the  assistance  of  a 
groom,  carry  away  with  her  any  ornament  that  she 
thought  a  bit  pretty.  The  consequence  was  that  the 
wives  of  the  burghers  began  to  fear  the  rattle  of  my 
Lady's  carriage  as  they  feared  the  plague.  When  they 
heard  the  familiar  rolling  of  the  wheels  they  would  run 
hither  and  thither  through  the  house,  hiding  anything  that 
they  thought  might  catch  her  fancy.  It  may  be  added 
that  this  noble  thief  would  generally  pawn  the  things  she 
had  thus  secured  from  her  loyal  subjects. 

There  must  have  been  no  end  of  rejoicing  when  her 
ladyship  died  several  years  later  and  was  buried  in  the 
graveyard  of  Trinity  Church  with  much  pomp  and 
pageantry.  There  must  have  been,  too,  many  a  cheerful 
face  in  evidence  at  that  funeral.  No  doubt  the  under- 
taker looked  melancholy.  He  had  reason  so  to  look;  his 
bill  for  the  interment  of  the  lady  would  never  be  paid 
either  by  Lord  Cornbury  or  by  any  one  else.  As  for  my 
Lord  he  was  finally  recalled  to  England  by  his  cousin, 
Queen  Anne,  after  having  first  been  thrown  into  a  New 
York  jail  for  debt. 

There  was  another  Royal  Governor  of  whom  the  New 
Yorkers  had  rather  curious  recollections.  He  was 
Richard  Coote,  Earl  of  Bellomont,  a  dashing,  but  elderly 
cavalier  who  brought  with  him  to  New  York,  much 
against  her  will,  a  young  and  beautiful  wife,  of  whom  he 

125 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

was  insanely  jealous.  The  Countess  of  Bellomont  was 
one  of  the  greatest  gamblers  of  her  day,  and  extravagant, 
not  to  say  dissolute  enough  to  put  many  a  high-living 
man  of  the  early  eighteenth  century  to  the  blush.  She 
was  not  prepared,  therefore,  to  find  Manhattan  very  ex- 
citing under  any  circumstances.  But  what  must  have 
been  her  feelings  when  Lord  Bellomont,  fearing  lest  some 
of  the  young  burghers  of  the  island  would  fall  in  love 
with  her,  shut  her  up  in  the  Governor's  mansion,  where 
she  became  little  more  than  a  prisoner  within  gilded  bars. 
Poor  lady!  Perhaps  she  may  have  employed  her  solitude 
in  atoning  for  all  her  past  sins,  but  we  are  prone  to  be 
skeptical  on  that  point.  It  was  her  lordly  husband,  by- 
the-way,  who  was  a  friend  and  patron  of  the  notorious 
Captain  Kidd,  and  who  was  suspected  (no  human  being 
can  now  say  whether  justly  or  unjustly)  of  sharing  some 
of  the  rich  plunder  which  that  enterprising  New  Yorker 
was  wont  to  filch  from  the  holds  of  unprotected  English 
merchantmen. 

Is  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  when  the  long-suffering 
New  Yorkers  heard  of  the  coming  of  Colonel  William 
Cosby  they  should  have  wondered  what  manner  of 
gentleman  this  new  ruler  might  be?  They  sought  to 
learn  all  that  they  could  about  him.  The  knowledge 
thus  obtained  was  not  over-assuring.  The  Colonel  was 
a  polished  Anglo-Irish  swindler,  who  had  been  recalled 
from  his  Governorship  of  the  Island  of  Minorca  because 
of  his  peculations!  Stealing,  however,  on  the  part  of 

126 


CONSPIRACIES     AND    C  U  P  I  D 

British  officials  was  not  considered  much  of  a  crime  in 
those  easy  days  when  rank  or  influence  protected  many  a 
rascal.  It  was  the  epoch  of  the  great  Robert  Walpole, 
who  took  so  cynical  a  view  of  the  honesty  of  his  country- 
men that  he  considered  every  Englishman  "had  his 
price."  The  real  crime,  if  one  stole  public  funds  or 
government  moneys,  was  in  being  found  out.  As  that 
happened  to  be  the  crime  of  which  poor  Cosby  was 
guilty,  he  was  brought  back  to  England — and  soon 
rewarded  by  an  appointment  to  the  richer  Governor- 
ship of  New  York.  The  townsmen  shook  their  heads 
when  they  heard  these  things,  and  asked  themselves 
if  they  were  to  be  forced  to  undergo  a  second  Lord 
Cornbury. 

After  a  time  Colonel  Cosby,  accompanied  by  his  wife 
and  daughter,  reaches  the  port  of  New  York.  The  new 
Governor  looks  pompous,  arrogant,  self-important;  there 
is  a  glint  in  his  eyes  which  suggests  a  fellow  who  is  on 
the  search  for  gold.  Madame  Cosby,  whose  near  rela- 
tionship to  an  Earl  has  not  apparently  added  to  her  breed- 
ing, looks  bored  at  the  sight  of  the  vulgar  Americans 
who  have  turned  out  to  greet  the  Colonel.  She  makes  a 
mental  resolution  that  she  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  women  of  New  York,  and  that  her  one  ambition  will 
be  the  saving  up  of  as  much  money  as  possible.  Not  a 
whit,  she  thinks,  shall  be  spent  in  entertaining  any  of 
these  stupid  natives — and  not  one  man  among  the  lot 

shall  be  introduced  to  her  daughter.     That  daughter's 

127 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

name  is  Eleanor.  She  is  young  and  pretty:  she  will 
soon  be  the  heroine  of  a  romance  which  will  set  the 
whole  town  agog.  She  is  not  so  stiff  as  her  mother,  and, 
indeed,  from  her  manner  one  might  suppose  that  she 
would  be  quite  glad  to  meet  some  of  the  young  burghers. 
And  when  one  regards  her  rosy  cheeks  and  shining  eyes 
it  is  plain  that  the  aforesaid  young  burghers  would  be 
only  too  glad  to  respond. 

Who  is  the  courtly  gentleman  who  is  bowing  cere- 
moniously to  the  Governor,  and  making  some  very 
formal  announcement  ?  It  is  Chief  Justice  Lewis  Morris, 
who  is  informing  Cosby  that' the  Assembly  of  New  York 
has  voted  to  make  him  (for  alleged  services  in  London 
connected  with  the  Sugar  Bill)  a  present  of  seven  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  sterling.  It  is  a  princely  gift;  but  why 
does  our  friend  the  Governor  frown  ?  Surely  one  gener- 
ally makes  some  sign  of  pleasure  when  one  has  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  as  a  gratuity  in  prospect.  There 
must  be  something  wrong,  however,  for  the  frown  on 
the  Governor's  face  only  deepens.  Perhaps  he  has  not 
heard  aright  what  the  Chief  Justice  said.  He  may  not 
understand  that  this  money  is  intended  for  his  own  pri- 
vate purse.  For  —yes,  ' '  Gad  zooks ! "  "  Odds  bodkins ! " 
"Zounds!"  The  new  Governor  is  swearing!  Think  of 
it!  There  must  be  a  grave  mistake.  Yet  listen.  The 
Governor,  after  indulging  in  a  few  more  choice  expres- 
sions, begins  to  abuse  the  New  Yorkers  in  round,  set 
terms,  because  they  have  not  made  him  a  larger  gift! 

128 


CONSPIRACIES     AND     CUPID 

Was  ever  such  a  piece  of  boorishness  heard  of  this  side 
of  the  water?  The  Chief  Justice  regards  the  rude 
swindler  in  veritable  amazement.  Colonel  Morris  is  a 
gentleman;  he  cannot  fathom  how  this  English  specimen 
of  the  porcine  family  can  look  decent  men  in  the  face 
after  such  an  exhibition.  And  this  is  the  man  that  King 
George  II  has  sent  over  to  govern  some  thousands  of  his 
loyal  subjects!  No  wonder  that  before  another  half  cen- 
tury has  gone  by  the  misruled  Americans  will  have 
severed  their  allegiance  to  the  British  crown. 

The  Governor  himself  is  not  a  bit  mortified  by  his  exhi- 
bition of  temper.  He  is  coarse  to  the  backbone,  and  he 
has,  furthermore,  the  true  British  contempt  for  provin- 
cials. What  are  these  countrified,  half  Dutch  New 
Yorkers,  that  he  should  put  on  manners  for  them  ?  He 
will  only  play  the  gentleman  when  there  is  something  to 
be  gained  by  it.  When  he  goes  into  a  foreign  country 
he  will  take  with  him  the  inestimable  privilege  of  abu- 
sing the  inhabitants.  As  for  this  paltry  seven  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds — bah!  it  is  an  absurdly  small  amount. 
The  burghers  are  getting  richer  and  richer  day  by  day  as 
trade  increases.  Let  them  treble  the  gift,  at  least,  or 
multiply  it  as  many  times  as  possible. 

But  hush!  Colonel  Morris  is  answering  the  Governor. 
Listen!  Yes!  He  is  telling  Cosby  what  he  thinks  of 
him,  and  saying  that  in  future  he  will  have  no  dealings 
with  the  boor,  saving  on  official  business.  At  supper, 
the  same  evening,  hundreds  of  tongues  are  repeating  the 

129 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

manly  speech  of  the  Chief  Justice  and  condemning  the 
upstart  Governor. 

The  weeks  roll  on,  as  Cosby  and  his  wife  make 
themselves  more  and  more  obnoxious  to  the  wisest  peo- 
ple of  New  York.  The  one  idea  of  the  husband  is  to 
screw  money  out  of  the  Americans:  the  one  idea  of  the 
wife  is  to  be  a  snob.  Yet,  in  spite  of  the  supercilious- 
ness of  Madame  Cosby,  she  has  not  half  the  refinement 
of  the  good  citizens  of  New  York.  They  may  be  a  trifle 
provincial  in  their  ideals  (/.  e.t  they  do  not  gamble,  or 
take  delight  in  breaking  several  of  the  commandments), 
but  they  can  put  on  a  pretty  front  at  an  assembly  or 
concert.  They  dress  with  neatness,  and  a  fair  amount 
of  taste;  they  are  sprightly  and  good-humored,  with  ad- 
mirable manners,  albeit  a  trifle  stilted,  and  they  keep 
plentifully  laden  tables  for  the  comfort  both  of  them- 
selves and  the  welcome  visitors  within  their  hospitable 
gates.  They  have,  in  fine,  the  habits  and  accomplishments 
of  colonial  gentlefolk,  and  they  are,  unlike  their  Governor, 
neither  swindlers  nor  blacklegs.  But  what  cares  Madame 
Cosby,  sister  of  the  puissant  Earl  of  Halifax,  for  all  this  ? 
She  is  an  Englishwoman,  and  the  wife  of  the  Governor  of 
New  York,  and  can  afford  to  be  proud  and  overbearing. 

And  what  of  Mistress  Eleanor  Cosby  ?  She  is  deeply 
engaged  in  a  serious  flirtation  with  a  very  gay  aristocrat 
who  is  visiting  New  York.  He  is  Lord  Augustus  Fitzroy, 
son  of  the  Duke  of  Grafton.  Madame  Cosby  is  de- 
lighted when  she  sees,  with  those  shrewd,  lynx  eyes  of 

130 


CONSPIRACIES     AND    CUPID 

hers,  that  Fitzroy  has  fallen  in  love  with  the  sweet  face 
of  Mistress  Eleanor.  It  is  an  alluring  thought,  that  she, 
Madame  Cosby,  may  become  the  mother-in-law  of  a 
Duke's  child.  She  will  do  all  she  can  to  forward  the 
romance.  No  doubt  she  confides  her  hopes  to  her  hus- 
band, the  Governor;  but  the  Governor  is  afraid  to  con- 
nive at  the  love  affair.  The  Duke  of  Grafton  is  all  pow- 
erful in  English  politics,  and  his  Grace  may  disapprove  of 
the  match.  Therefore  will  the  wily  Governor  pretend  to 
know  nothing  about  it.  He  determines  to  shut  his  eyes 
to  the  doings  of  the  pair,  and  he  does  shut  them. 

Madame  Cosby,  however,  has  no  such  conscientious 
scruples.  When  she  learns  that  Fitzroy  has  at  last 
thrown  himself  at  the  feet  of  Eleanor,  who  has  accepted 
him,  she  resolves  to  bring  matters  to  a  climax.  It  is  im- 
possible, owing  to  the  caution  and  the  blindness  of  the 
Governor,  to  give  the  young  couple  the  desired  display 
of  a  public  wedding  ceremony.  There  must  be  an 
elopement,  which  will  have  the  sequel  of  marriage,  and 
at  the  same  time  save  Cosby  any  unpleasant  reproaches 
from  the  Duke  of  Grafton.  Happy  thought.  Madame 
Cosby  begins  to  make  the  necessary  preparations  with 
as  much  zest  as  if  she,  rather  than  her  daughter,  were  to 
be  the  bride.  The  daughter,  be  it  added,  is  only  too  glad 
to  have  so  determined  a  match-maker  in  the  family. 

On  a  certain  bright  day  there  is  an  air  of  suppressed 
excitement  in  the  residence  of  the  Governor.  This  build- 
ing, known  as  "The  White  Hall,"  was  at  the  corner  of 

131 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

what  are  now  Whitehall  and  State  Streets.  Miss  Eleanor 
goes  about  the  house  with  a  heightened  color  in  her  at- 
tractive face,  and  Madame  Cosby  cultivates  an  air  of 
mysterious  importance.  A  practiced  eye  may  detect  that 
something  startling  is  about  to  happen.  The  Governor 
himself  has  an  air  of  pristine  innocence  that  might  be  al- 
most too  studied  to  deceive  the  Duke  of  Grafton,  were 
his  Grace  in  New  York.  Lord  Augustus  Fitzroy  is  con- 
spicuous by  his  absence.  No  one  speaks  his  name. 

Evening  comes.  Suddenly  Madame  Cosby,  looking  as 
determined  as  only  a  harsh-visaged  female  can,  runs  hast- 
ily up  to  the  servants'  quarters,  and  proceeds  to  turn  the 
keys  in  the  doors  of  the  surprised  domestics.  There  is 
to  be  something  unusual,  she  thinks,  and  the  servants 
shall  not  spoil  matters  by  raising  an  alarm.  Then,  hav- 
ing taken  this  precaution,  the  lady  creeps  into  the  room 
of  Eleanor,  who  is,  no  doubt,  pale  and  trembling,  as  befits 
her  romance.  Madame  throws  a  huge  red  cloak  over  the 
girl's  white  dress.  Next  she  leads  her  through  the  house 
and  down  to  the  gateway  of  the  garden.  Here  Fitzroy, 
looking  handsome  and  impatient,  awaits  her  with  some 
of  his  boon  companions.  There  awaits  her,  too,  a  clergy- 
man of  the  Church  of  England.  He  is  chaplain  to  the 
Governor  of  the  Province  of  New  York,  yet  he  has 
climbed  a  fence  to  assist  at  this  irregular  function.  The 
Governor  himself  is  absent.  He  has  taken  good  care  to  play 
his  r61e  well.  The  fact  is  that  he  is  at  his  club,  and  getting 
gloriously  intoxicated  into  the  bargain. 

132 


CONSPIRACIES     AND     CUPID 

No  sooner  is  the  wedding  party — for  such  it  is — duly 
and  secretly  assembled  than  the  chaplain  proceeds  to 
make  Eleanor  Cosby  and  Lord  Augustus  Fitzroy  man  and 
wife.  The  following  day,  when  the  Governor  has  re- 
covered from  the  effects  of  his  club,  he  is,  of  course, 
dumbfounded  at  the  news  that  his  daughter  has  eloped. 
How  astonishing!  Who  was  the  presumptuous  groom  ? 
The  Lord  Augustus  Fitzroy.  Well,  well!  How 
strange !  The  Governor  is  willing  to  take  a  hundred  oaths 
that  he  is  the  most  surprised  man  in  all  the  province,  and 
vows  that  never  before  has  he  been  so  fooled  by  a  girl. 

Yet  while  his  Excellency  is  protesting  that  he  is  a  most 
startled  father,  there  is  one  girl,  not  his  daughter,  who  is 
engaged,  in  very  truth,  in  the  business  of  fooling  him. 
She  is  Mistress  Euphemia  Morris,  elder  daughter  of  the 
Chief  Justice  Morris  who  has  such  a  contempt  for  Cosby, 
and,  as  it  so  happens,  she  is  engaged  to  marry  a  Captain 
Norris,  commander  of  an  English  man-of-war  now  an- 
chored off  New  York.  Miss  Morris,  like  her  father,  de- 
spises the  rude  Governor.  Now  her  chance  has  come  to 
show  his  Excellency,  with  the  incidental  aid  of  her  lover, 
of  what  stuff  American  maidens  are  made. 

The  thing  occurs  in  this  wise.  The  Governor  has 
made  himself  so  obnoxious  to  the  most  patriotic  people 
of  New  York,  and  has  tried  to  lord  it  over  them  with  so 
high  a  hand,  that  they  resolve  in  secret  to  send  Chief 
Justice  Morris  over  to  England  to  put  their  grievances  be- 
fore the  government.  Now  this  is  exactly  what  the 

133 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY  AMERICA 

Governor  would  not  want  done,  if  he  knew  of  the  plan. 
He  already  fears  that  some  one  of  his  enemies  may  sail 
away  from  the  port,  bound  on  such  a  mission.  Accord- 
ingly he  issues  an  order  whereby  no  one  is  to  be  allowed 
to  sail  unless  the  passenger  bears  a  permit  graciously 
signed  by  the  Governor.  That  is  a  bit  of  autocracy  of 
which  even  the  King  of  England  would  be  slow  to  avail 
himself;  but  what  of  that?  These  wretched  provincials 
have  no  rights  that  a  high  and  mighty  Governor,  the 
brother-in-law  to  the  Earl  of  Halifax,  is  bound  to  respect. 

Chief  Justice  Morris  knows  that  if  he  is  to  get  away  to 
England  he  must  do  so  by  stratagem.  Cosby  will  never 
grant  an  opponent  a  permit  to  leave  the  harbor  of  New 
York.  So  he  asks,  demurely  enough,  for  permission  to 
go  to  his  home.  This  is  a  trifle  wily  on  the  part  of 
Colonel  Morris,  for  the  "home  "  intended  happens  to  be 
England,  and  not  his  place  in  the  country.  However,  it 
is  supposed  that  he  refers  to  the  latter,  and  the  necessary 
permit  is  obtained  from  the  unsuspecting  Governor. 

So  far  this  is  easy  work  for  the  Chief  Justice.  But  it  is 
incumbent  on  him,  as  he  has  not  yet  departed,  to  be  very 
wary.  He  is  now  at  his  residence  in  Morrisania.  Before 
he  sails  he  must  secure  from  his  friend  James  Alexander, 
in  New  York,  certain  documents  which  are  intended  to 
prove  to  the  English  government  the  worthlessness  of 
Governor  Cosby.  Accordingly  he  takes  into  his  confi- 
dence his  daughter  Euphemia,  the  fiancee  of  Captain 
Norris.  She  is  instructed  to  go  to  New  York,  apparently 

134 


CONSPIRACIES     AND     CUPID 

bent  on  paying  an  innocent  visit  to  Mrs.  Alexander,  and 
must  surreptitiously  obtain  from  the  latter's  husband  the 
incriminating  papers.  Miss  Euphemia  is  only  too  glad 
to  assist  in  such  an  adventure:  she  is  young,  and  ro- 
mantic blood  bubbles  through  her  veins.  So  she  dons 
a  becoming  dress,  puts  a  velvet  riding  mask  over  her 
animated  face,  and  is  soon  ready  for  the  trip. 

"  The  journey  in  those  days  was  long  and  tiresome," 
says  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer,  "  the  Harlem  River  having  to 
be  crossed  in  a  scow,  poled  by  two  negroes,  from  the 
mainland  to  a  point  on  Mana-ha-ta,  where  the  horses  and 
coach  were  kept  The  latter  was  a  heavy,  cumbersome 
affair,  hung  on  great  straps,  with  a  hammer-cloth  cov- 
ering the  coachman's  seat;  the  doors  were  emblazoned 
with  the  family  coat-of-arms  and  the  crest  of  a  flaming 
castle,  with  the  motto,  Tandem  Vincetur.  The  horses 
were  the  strong,  ugly  geldings  of  Holland  blood  that 
were  necessary  in  order  to  drag  such  a  cumbersome 
affair  through  the  mire  and  over  the  stones.  ...  A  ne- 
gro coachman  dressed  in  a  livery  of  pale  blue  cloth  with  sil- 
ver and  wearing  a  triangular  cocked  hat  trimmed  with 
broad  silver  lace,  sat  on  the  box  and  skilfully  drove  his 
clumsy  horses,  and  a  negro  boy  hung  by  the  tassels  be- 
hind, wearing  the  same  livery,  with  the  exception  that  a 
jockey-cap  of  Turkish  leather,  with  silver  seams  and 
band,  took  the  place  of  the  coachman's  cocked  hat." 

No  sooner  had  Miss  Morris  reached  the  home  of  the 
Alexanders  than  she  had  a  private  interview  with  Mr. 

136 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY    AMERICA 

Alexander,  who  gave  her,  with  the  utmost  secrecy,  the 
needful  documents.  The  two  must  have  felt  like  the 
conspirators  in  a  play.  There  were  many  cautions  and 
whisperings  between  them :  then  the  girl  hurried  away  to 
join  her  father,  who  had,  in  the  meantime,  journeyed  on 
alone  to  New  York.  The  Chief  Justice  and  his  daughter 
now  began  the  return  trip  to  Morrisania.  On  their  way 
they  saw  the  frigate  Tartar,  commanded  by  Captain 
Morris,  passing  through  Hell  Gate.  Father  and  daughter 
exchanged  significant  smiles.  Well  they  might,  for  Nor- 
ris  was  to  give  aid  and  due  effect  to  their  little  plot. 

Euphemia  Morris  was  not  a  girl  who  would  be  content 
with  mere  protestations  of  affection  on  the  part  of  her 
lover.  She  was  ready  to  put  his  vows  to  the  test  (being 
practical  despite  her  romantic  spirit),  and  had  already 
enlisted  him  in  a  plan  to  aid  her  father  in  his  attempt  to 
steal  off  to  England.  It  was  a  case  of  "Help  my  father, 
and  you  have  my  hand."  The  Captain,  at  the  risk  of 
throwing  himself  into  hot  water,  had  gallantly  responded 
to  the  invitation.  It  was  arranged  that  the  Tartar  should 
anchor  off  Morrisania  that  same  evening,  and  then  sail 
away  to  England  the  very  moment  that  Colonel  Morris 
boarded  her.  No  doubt  the  lovely  Euphemia  wished 
that  she,  too,  were  to  take  the  voyage.  Still,  she  could 
comfort  herself  with  the  reflection  that  she  had  for  her 
fianct  a  man  true  as  steel,  who  had  already  proved  his 
love  in  a  manner  from  which  many  a  carpet-knight 
might  have  shrunk  in  dismay.  One  thing  she  knew,  and 

136 


CONSPIRACIES     AND     CUPID 

it  was,  indeed,  a  pleasant  thing  to  which  to  look  for- 
ward. There  would  be  opportunity  for  her,  amid  the 
bustle  of  departure,  to  have  one  farewell  talk  with  Cap- 
tain Norris. 

That  evening  there  was  an  unusual  scene  on  the  land- 
ing at  Morrisania.  Euphemia  Morris,  in  whose  face 
shone  alternately  joy  and  sorrow — joy  at  the  conduct  of 
her  lover,  and  sorrow  at  taking  leave  of  him  and  her 
father — was  listening  to  a  torrent  of  whispered  words 
from  the  Captain.  We  can  all  surmise  the  import  of 
those  words.  The  Chief  Justice  was  bidding  farewell  to 
his  other  children  and  to  Mrs.  Morris.  They  were  look- 
ing tearful,  as  they  might,  for  a  journey  across  the  ocean, 
even  in  a  man-of-war,  was  accounted  a  dangerous  thing 
more  than  a  century  and  a  half  ago.  Out  in  the  deep 
water  was  anchored  the  Tartar,  from  whose  bulwarks 
men  peered  curiously  into  the  darkness.  How  Governor 
Cosby  would  have  ground  his  teeth,  had  he  seen  this  little 
episode;  but  the  Governor  was  not  there  to  see.  In  all 
probability  he  was  in  his  usual  state  of  forgetfulness  at 
the  club. 

At  last  the  lapse  of  time  warned  the  Chief  Justice  that 
he  should  be  off.  It  might  be  supposed  that  this  thought 
should  have  occurred  first  to  Captain  Norris,  but  as  the 
latter  was  young,  very  human,  and  much  in  love,  why 
should  we  blame  him  for  a  delay  that  must  have  been  so 
tempting  ?  As  he  whispered  soft  nothings  into  the  ears 
of  the  clinging  Euphemia,  there  was  a  cry  from  one  of 

137 


ROMANCES   OF    EARLY   AMERICA 

the  party.  It  came  from  Colonel  Morris,  who  shouted 
that  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  A  few  more  words,  a 
something  that  sounded  suspiciously  like  a  kiss,  and  then 
the  naval  officer  tore  himself  away.  In  another  minute 
sailors  were  rapidly  rowing  the  gig  of  Captain  Norris 
over  to  the  frigate.  Another  two  or  three  minutes,  and 
the  Captain,  with  Colonel  Morris  near  him,  was  walking 
the  quarter-deck  of  his  vessel.  Soon  the  Tartar  was 
under  sail,  making  directly  for  the  ocean.  Governor 
Cosby  was  outwitted.  In  the  pocket  of  the  Chief  Jus- 
tice's coat  were  the  papers  which  set  forth  the  Governor's 
treachery,  greed  and  incompetency. 

In  this  wise,  through  the  connivance  of  a  woman,  did 
Cosby  wake  up  one  fine  morning  to  find  that  one  of  his 
greatest  enemies  had  given  him  the  slip.  It  turned  out, 
however,  as  Colonel  Morris  learned  upon  his  arrival  in 
England,  that  the  Governor  had  such  interest  with  the 
government,  through  his  connections  with  influential 
people,  that  it  was  impossible  to  dislodge  him  from  his 
position.  The  English  Lords  of  Trade  cared  very  little 
whether  or  not  the  New  York  "rustics "  were  dissatisfied 
with  their  ruler.  But  we  may  be  sure  that  Cosby  and  his 
sour-visaged  wife  never  forgave  Miss  Euphemia  Morris 
for  her  share  in  the  conspiracy.  That  young  lady  after- 
wards married  the  Captain  who  had  risked  his  commis- 
sion in  her  behalf,  and  we  hear  of  her  as  one  of  the 
married  belles  of  a  New  York  assembly. 

There  was  another  New  York  woman,  this  time  a  de- 

138 


CONSPIRACIES     AND    CUPID 

voted  wife  rather  than  a  fiancee,  who  soon  set  her  own 
wit  against  the  wit  of  the  Governor,  and  came  out  of  the 
ordeal  with  flying  colors.  This  was  Mrs.  Alexander, 
wife  of  the  before-mentioned  Mr.  James  Alexander,  and 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  young  matrons  in  the  colony. 
She  had  more  than  beauty,  fortunately  enough ;  she  was 
bright  of  mind  and  full  of  energy.  Never,  indeed, 
did  she  show  this  brightness  and  energy  more  strikingly 
than  during  the  "Zenger"  excitement.  How  the  name 
of  Zenger  did  stir  up  the  inhabitants  of  the  town,  to  be 
sure!  The  name  is  almost  forgotten  now,  save  by  the 
students  of  history,  although  the  bearer  of  it  did  more 
than  any  one  else  has  done  since  to  vindicate  the  liberty 
of  the  press  in  America. 

John  Peter  Zenger,  a  German  by  birth,  was  the  pub- 
lisher of  the  New  York  Weekly  Journal — a  new  paper 
that  gave  great  comfort  to  the  honest  citizens  by  its  at- 
tacks on  the  sins,  personal  and  official,  of  the  Governor. 
The  articles  were  written,  it  was  thought,  by  James 
Alexander  and  William  Smith,  the  great  lawyer;  but, 
although  the  Governor  had  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  such 
was  the  case,  and  offered  a  reward  to  any  one  who 
would  discover  the  authorship  of  the  offending  criticisms, 
the  mystery  was  not  solved.  At  last  the  Governor  had 
Zenger  imprisoned.  It  was  a  bold  move;  bold,  indeed, 
to  the  extent  of  absolutism,  for  it  meant,  if  it  were  to 
mean  anything,  that  honest  fault-finding  against  a  public 
official  would  be  treated  as  treason. 

139 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

No  sooner  had  the  printer  been  brought  into  court  for 
trial,  with  James  Alexander  and  William  Smith  as  his 
counsel,  than  James  DeLancey,  then  Chief  Justice  (him- 
self a  great  toady  to  the  Governor)  did  a  strange,  illegal 
thing.  Fearing  that  two  such  good  lawyers  as  Alex- 
ander and  Smith  would  secure  from  the  jury  a  verdict 
in  favor  of  the  defendant,  he  promptly  ordered  that 
their  two  names  should  be  stricken  from  the  roll  of 
attorneys-at-law  in  the  province.  No  Czar  of  all 
the  Russias  could  have  been  more  brazenly  unjust  and 
despotic. 

The  people  of  New  York  were  astounded,  and,  worse 
yet,  frightened.  What  was  to  be  their  fate  under  such  a 
tyrannical  state  of  things?  Mr.  Alexander  began  to 
think  very  seriously  of  the  advisability  of  moving  to 
Philadelphia,  where  he  might  practice  law,  and  enjoy  a 
greater  measure  of  freedom.  But  Mrs.  Alexander  was 
made  of  sterner  stuff.  "  Why  should  we  give  in  to  our 
enemies  ? "  was  the  substance  of  the  question  that  she 
asked  her  disgusted  husband.  "Instead  of  going  away 
to  a  new  province,  where  we  are  unknown,  and  without 
influence,  let  us  stay  here  to  fight  the  Governor  and  his 
friends — and  conquer  them!"  She  hinted  that  if  no 
New  York  lawyer  now  dared  to  defend  poor  Zenger, 
after  the  arbitrary  action  of  DeLancey,  help  might  be  se- 
cured from  Philadelphia.  There  was  Andrew  Hamilton, 
an  attorney  of  rare  power,  who  might  snap  his  fingers  at 

the  Chief  Justice  in  New  York.    The  latter  could  not  pre- 
140 


CONSPIRACIES     AND     CUPID 

vent  Hamilton  from  carrying  on  his  profession  in  Penn- 
sylvania. Disbarment  in  the  courts  of  New  York  would 
offer  no  terrors  for  one  who  was  wont  to  practice  in 
Philadelphia.  "Let  us  secretly  communicate  with  An- 
drew Hamilton,"  urged  Mrs.  Alexander. 

The  suggestion  seems  to  have  met  with  approval;  but 
the  problem  now  was  how  to  see  this  Mr.  Hamilton 
without  attracting  the  suspicion  of  the  Governor's  hench- 
men, headed  by  DeLancey?  For  it  was  needful  that 
when  the  case  of  Zenger,  which  had  been  continued, 
should  again  come  up  in  court,  the  new  counsel  for  the 
printer  should,  as  it  were,  take  the  Chief  Justice  un- 
awares, without  giving  word  or  warning.  Otherwise 
DeLancey  would  have  time  to  devise  some  plot  against 
him.  Thereupon  the  woman's  wit  of  pretty  Mistress 
Alexander  came  to  the  rescue.  She  would  travel  to 
Philadelphia  herself  to  ask  Mr.  Hamilton  if  he  would 
take  charge  of  Zenger's  case!  It  was  a  brilliant 
stroke  of  genius.  Her  husband  and  Mr.  Smith  were 
charmed  at  the  idea.  Mrs.  Alexander  should  battle 
for  the  freedom  of  the  press,  and  the  liberties  of  the 
people. 

The  greatest  caution,  however,  was  necessary.  If  the 
Governor  got  wind  of  her  mission,  Heaven  alone  knew 
what  would  be  the  outcome.  So  the  lady  began  to  dis- 
semble— and  we  all  know  how  much  better  a  woman 
can  dissemble  than  a  man.  She  gave  out,  with  a  great 
deal  of  ostentation,  that  she  was  going  to  Perth  Amboy 

141 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

on  private  business,  and  she  sailed  away  from  the  wharf 
in  New  York  with  as  much  publicity  as  possible.  When, 
however,  the  schooner  reached  Perth  Amboy,  Mrs.  Alex- 
ander suddenly  found  that  her  private  business  was  not 
very  important.  She  stole  away  from  the  place  in  a 
coach,  and  was  soon  rattling  through  the  country  to 
Philadelphia.  Sewed  tightly  within  her  silken  petticoat 
were  the  legal  papers  prepared  by  her  husband  for 
the  Zenger  case.  These  she  was  to  present  to  Mr. 
Hamilton. 

In  due  time  Mrs.  Alexander  was  back  again  in  New 
York.  She  told  her  friends  that  she  had  had  a  most  suc- 
cessful trip,  in  attending  to  that  private  business  at  Perth 
Amboy.  Later  the  trial  of  the  printer  was  called  up 
again  in  court.  All  New  York,  not  forgetting  the  Gov- 
ernor, was  asking  the  question:  "What  lawyer  among 
us  will  have  the  bravery  to  defend  Zenger  ?  "  Cosby  was 
quite  sure  that  John  Peter  Zenger  would  find  himself 
without  counsel.  Was  not  the  pliable  tool  of  a  DeLancey 
ready  to  disbar  any  New  York  attorney  who  would  dare 
to  brave  the  Governor's  displeasure?  What,  therefore, 
was  the  discomfiture  of  Cosby  and  DeLancey  when  the 
distinguished  Philadelphian,  Andrew  Hamilton,  whom 
they  dared  not  serve  as  they  would  one  of  their  own 
lawyers,  walked  into  court  as  the  accredited  representa- 
tive of  the  prisoner. 

How  the  Governor  squirmed  when  he  listened  to  the 
brilliant  speech  in  behalf  of  the  defendant,  whose  only 

142 


CONSPIRACIES     AND     CUPID 

crime  was  that  he  had  published  the  truth.  How  the 
jury  craned  their  necks  to  hear  every  word  of  this  Phila- 
delphia eloquence.  How  the  face  of  Chief  Justice  De- 
Lancey  grew  gloomier  and  gloomier  of  expression.  And 
how  the  people  in  the  court-room  did  cheer,  to  be  sure, 
when  the  jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of  "Not  guilty!" 
The  verdict  meant  that  the  press  was  not  to  be  enslaved, 
and  that  the  faults  of  a  public  official,  even  be  he  a  Royal 
Governor,  were  not  to  be  regarded  as  sacred. 

The  cheers  sent  a  flush  of  anger  surging  into  the 
cheeks  of  the  Chief  Justice,  for  they  sounded  like  an 
insult  for  himself.  "The  court  will  order  any  one  who 
huzzas  sent  to  prison! "  he  cried,  in  a  great  passion,  with 
kindling  eyes.  There  was,  however,  one  in  the  audience 
who  was  not  to  be  overawed  by  this  judicial  bullying. 
It  was  the  dashing  Captain  Norris,  our  friend  of  the 
frigate  Tartar,  who  had  just  married  Euphemia  Morris, 
on  his  return  from  England.  "Huzzas,"  he  cried,  "are 
common  in  Westminster  Hall!"  and  he  went  on  to 
justify  the  custom  with  an  eloquence  that  one  might 
hardly  have  expected  from  a  naval  officer.  Then  there 
was  renewed  cheering  in  the  court-room,  which  was 
taken  up  by  the  crowd  in  the  street.  The  day  was  won 
for  Zenger,  and,  better  still,  for  liberty  of  opinion.  It  is 
pleasant,  as  we  look  back  on  this  scene,  to  reflect  that 
the  man  who  put  in  so  manly  an  appeal  for  American 
freedom,  although  himself  an  Englishman,  should  have 
been  the  husband  of  Euphemia  Morris.  Captain  Norris 

143 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

was,  indeed,  a  gentleman.  Had  there  been  many  Eng- 
lishmen like  him  over  in  the  colonies  the  Revolution 
might  have  been  postponed  for  years. 

And  what  of  that  handsome  schemer,  pretty  Mrs. 
Alexander?  She  was  the  most  pleased  woman  in  all 
New  York,  excepting  possibly  Mrs.  Norris,  when  she 
saw  the  complete  success  of  her  intrigue.  Andrew 
Hamilton  was  the  hero  of  the  hour,  much  to  the  chagrin 
of  the  Governor  and  his  underlings.  He  was  obliged  to 
run  the  gauntlet  of  a  public  dinner  given  in  his  honor,  a 
ball,  and  a  quantity  of  hand-shaking  and  congratulations. 
When  he  began  his  return  journey  to  Philadelphia  he 
went  off  with  all  the  pomp  due  to  a  conquering 
King. 

Cosby  had  received  a  blow  from  which  he  never  re- 
covered. He  was  not  a  thin-skinned  man,  for  rascals  in 
office  seldom  are,  but  to  recall  the  triumph  of  Zenger  and 
the  rejoicings  of  the  populace  made  him  gnash  his  teeth 
with  rage.  One  may  be  even  worse  than  his  Excellency, 
and  yet  smart  under  public  censure.  So  the  Governor 
"went  into  a  consumption,"  and  there  was  little  to  con- 
sole him  in  his  illness  save,  perhaps,  the  thought  that  his 
pretty  daughter  Eleanor,  Lady  Augustus  Fitzroy,  had 
given  birth  to  a  son  who  would  become,  in  future  years, 
Duke  of  Grafton.  Through  these  final  days  his  wife 
was  constant  to  him,  as  if  to  show  that  she  had,  at  least, 
some  good  in  her  vulgar  heart.  He  died  late  in  the  win- 
ter of  1735-36,  and  few  men  were  hypocritical  enough  to 

144 


CONSPIRACIES     AND     CUPID 

pretend  to  any  sorrow.  The  next  year  the  Messrs. 
James  Alexander  and  William  Smith  were  reinstated  at 
the  bar.  The  administration  of  Cosby  had  not  been  alto- 
gether wasted ;  for  it  had  shown  that  even  at  that  early 
day  there  were  two  women  who  were  ready  to  aid  in 
preserving  the  liberties  of  America. 


145 


BORN     TO    BE    A    REBEL 


Corner  of  JBoston  in  TRevoluticnarg  Dav 


n\ 


Jo 


VII 
BORN         TO         BE         A         REBEL 

THERE  was  a  mighty  unrest  in  the  province  of 
Massachusetts  Bay  for  some  time  preceding 
the  historic  effusion  of  blood  at  Lexington  and 
Concord  where  the  embattled  farmers  fired  the  shot 
"heard  round  the  world,"  and  thus  somewhat  unexpect- 
edly put  in  motion  the  American  Revolution.  Gage  and 
his  army  of  red-coats  had  possession  of  Boston,  while 
the  patriots,  as  they  saw  but  too  clearly  that  England  in- 
tended to  turn  the  colonies  into  helpless  dependencies, 
could  only  watch  and  pray— and  do  something  more 
practical.  They  could  prepare.  Old  muskets  were 
brought  from  fireplace  or  closet  and  polished  up;  an 
eye  was  kept  on  any  powder  and  ball  that  might  be  con- 
veniently near;  leaden  ware  was  secretly  moulded  into 
bullets ;  conferences  were  held  at  dead  of  night  to  dis- 
cuss the  future  and  devise  ways  and  means  for  defense, 
should  there  unfortunately  arise  any  necessity  for  such 
extremity.  It  was  like  living  on  the  cone  of  Vesuvius, 
with  an  eruption  in  prospect. 

The  weeks  went  on  and  the  patriots  became  more  de- 
termined, as  it  was  made  plainer  and  plainer  that  Eng- 
land looked  upon  all  who  opposed  her  blind  arrogance  as 

149 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

rebellious  upstarts.  They  dismantled  the  old  battery  at 
Charleston  and  carried  away  the  guns,  to  save  them  from 
being  turned  upon  themselves;  they  organized  militia 
companies  in  the  towns  outside  of  Boston;  they  col- 
lected military  stores.  While  they  were  doing  this,  the 
red-coats  were  swaggering  about  Boston,  treating  the 
citizens  as  they  might  treat  inferior  beings,  and  predict- 
ing freely  that  the  colonials  would  never  have  enough 
pluck  to  stand  up  against  half  a  company  of  well-armed 
British  regulars.  Once  a  British  colonel  and  some  troops 
marched  to  Salem  to  seize  the  cannon  deposited  there, 
but  the  Salemites  raised  the  draw  of  the  Old  North 
Bridge,  and  the  Colonel  marched  home  again  without  the 
ordnance.  At  another  time  soldiers  were  sent  out  from 
Boston  to  overawe  the  inhabitants  of  a  neighboring  town. 
These  and  other  events  roused  the  whole  countryside  to  a 
pitch  of  feverish  excitement.  More  British  troops  were 
on  their  way  to  America.  It  was  known,  too,  that  good 
King  George  had  made  up  his  mind  to  crush  the  subjects 
who  had  once  cherished  for  him,  while  he  deserved  it,  the 
most  unstinted  loyalty  and  affection.  All  this  mine  of 
disaffection,  therefore,  needed  but  a  light  to  set  it  off  into 
explosion. 

That  light  was  soon  to  be  applied.  It  was  now  the 
spring  of  1775.  The  Provincial  Congress,  at  Concord, 
was  taking  measures  to  raise  an  army  and  to  resist 
aggression.  Its  members  appointed  a  day  of  prayer  and 
fasting,  and  calmly  awaited  what  they  wisely  believed  to 

150 


BORN      TO      BE      A      REBEL 

be  the  inevitable.  In  Boston  General  Gage  had  turned 
the  Old  South  Church  into  a  riding-school  for  his  cavalry, 
to  show  his  truly  English  contempt  for  the  feelings  of  an 
honorable  enemy.  Every  night  the  taverns  of  the  town 
resounded  with  the  toasts  of  half-drunken  British  officers, 
who  drank  "  Confusion  to  the rebels!  " 

Now  it  happened  that  in  one  of  the  regiments  which 
domineered  the  Bostonians  there  was  a  certain  Samuel 
Lee,  an  Englishman  of  thirty  or  thereabouts.  He  was  a 
good-looking  fellow,  and  though  only  a  private,  he  came 
of  an  old  and  respected  family  across  the  Atlantic.  The 
Lees  were  Tories,  of  the  dyed-in-the-wool  kind.  They 
looked  upon  the  Americans  as  ungracious  clowns  who 
should  be  punished  for  daring  to  think  there  was  wrong 
in  anything  that  an  august  sovereign  might  desire  to  im- 
pose upon  them.  The  sum  and  substance  of  the  philos- 
ophy held  by  Samuel  Lee's  father  was:  "We  are  Eng- 
lish, and,  therefore,  we  cannot  err.  If  the  Americans 
differ  from  us — why,  then  the  rascally  Americans  are 
wrong!"  The  old  gentleman  suggested  very  strongly 
the  complacent  French  lady  who  complained  to  Benja- 
min Franklin  that  she  had  never  come  across  any  one 
who  was  exactly  right  in  all  his  or  her  views.  So  Lee 
had  said  to  his  son,  Samuel:  "  Go  to  the  war,  and  don't 
come  back  till  the  rebels  in  America  are  all  conquered — 
or  dead! " 

Young  Lee  had  enlisted  forthwith.  He  was  now  quar- 
tered in  Boston  at  the  barracks  of  the  Tenth  Regiment. 

151 


ROMANCES   OF    EARLY   AMERICA 

No  doubt  his  heart  had  been  full  of  vengeance  as  he 
sailed  across  the  sea  in  a  transport,  and  listened  to  the 
boastful  talk  of  his  fellow-soldiers,  who  were  loud  in 
their  contempt  for  the  "rebels."  But  there  came  a 
change  after  he  had  been  in  Boston  for  a  few  weeks.  He 
saw  that  the  despised  colonials  were  staunch,  honest 
people,  many  of  them  possessed  of  refinement  and 
worldly  substance,  and  all  of  them  imbued  with  that  love 
of  freedom  which  any  Englishman  should  have  been 
proud  to  foster.  He  saw,  too,  that  their  grievances  were 
real,  not  imaginary.  It  began  to  dawn  on  him — for  he 
was  without  the  average  insular  blindness — that  he  was 
soon  to  fight  against  a  much-wronged  foe.  But,  alas, 
was  he  not  a  soldier  of  the  King,  and  did  not  honor  re- 
quire him  to  stick  to  his  colors  ?  He  was  a  brave  man, 
and  true,  but  as  winter  passed  into  the  spring  of  1775  he 
grew  more  and  more  unhappy. 

Yet  a  man  may  fight  for  a  wrong  cause  and  feel  no  un- 
easiness, as  long  as  he  is  acting  under  orders.  Why 
should  Samuel  Lee  take  the  misfortunes  of  the  American 
patriots  so  much  to  heart  ?  Was  it  merely  that  he  had 
thought  the  matter  out,  and  had  been  brought  to  his 
present  frame  of  mind  through  the  light  of  cold  reason- 
ing ?  It  was  not  that  altogether.  Truth  compels  us  to 
say  that  Lee  had  a  very  personal  interest  in  the  American 
cause;  he  loved  a  fair  rebel.  Her  name  was  Polly  Piper. 
It  was  euphonious  enough  to  suggest  the  title  of  some 
bouncing  song — and  its  pretty  bearer  was  the  daughter 

153 


BORN       TO       BE 


REBEL 


of  a  Boston  patriot.  As  she  set  forth  the  wrongs  of  the 
colonists,  her  expressive,  pensive  face  would  flush  with 
an  anger  that  greatly  enhanced  her  charms  (for  she  was 
usually  pale),  and  Samuel  Lee,  British  soldier  though  he 
was,  could  not,  and  would  not  say  her  nay.  He  was 
fast  becoming  a  friend  to  America,  or  something  more 
than  a  friend  to  a  certain  young  American. 

A  man  is  not  so  skilful  in  concealing  his  feelings  as  is 
a  woman.  Ere  long  Lee's  fellow-soldiers  found  out  that 
Cupid  had  been  busy  with  one  of  their  number.  They 
began  to  tease  the  lover  unmercifully.  Had  the  latter 
been  in  love  with  a  Tory  the  teasing  would  have  been 
only  of  the  good-natured  kind;  but  it  became  more  or 
less  malicious  from  the  fact  that  the  girl  in  the  case 
chanced  to  be  a  patriot.  The  soldiers  jeered  at  him,  and 
they  placarded  the  door  of  his  barracks  with  a  conspicu- 
ous sign  which  read : 


CAUGHT  IN  PROVINCIAL  MESHES. 


We  may  fancy,  too,  that  Lee  had  to  stand  many  a  de- 
claration to  the  effect  that  he  was  a  "  blawsted  rebel,"  a 

153 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY  AMERICA 

"chicken-hearted  provincial  "  or  something  equally  crim- 
inal. Yet  he  went  on  serving  his  King,  whilst  the  polit- 
ical crisis  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  After  being  detained 
some  days  by  extra  duties  in  camp,  Lee  stole  out  from  his 
quarters,  "and  made  haste  to  the  street  and  door  where 
he  had  last  seen  the  object  of  his  growing  affections.  To 
his  surprise,  all  evidence  of  life  had  departed;  the  shutters 
were  closed,  the  doors  barred,  and  no  light  flickered  from 
any  window.  His  shrill  whistle  only  brought  an  answer- 
ing echo  from  the  shed  in  the  rear.  He  turned  sorrow- 
fully away,  revolving  in  his  mind  the  thought,  could  it 
be  that  this  family  had  been  driven  to  such  a  state  of  des- 
peration as  to  leave  their  home  and  go  into  a  country 
town,  as  so  many  had  done  ?"  ' 

How  Lee  railed  at  unkind  fate,  as  he  looked  at  the  de- 
serted house,  and  regretted  that  he  had  never  told  Polly 
of  his  love.  In  those  discussions  with  her  concerning 
the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  provincials,  why  had  he 
never  revealed  his  heart  to  her  ?  Why  had  he  not  told 
her  that  he  sympathized  with  the  Americans,  British  sol- 
dier though  he  was  ?  It  was  too  late  now.  Miss  Lee 
and  her  family  had  disappeared  as  completely  as  if  they 
had  been  transported  to  another  planet,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  no  amount  of  inquiries  in  their  old  neighborhood  could 
throw  any  light  on  their  present  whereabouts.  When 
some  one  told  him  that  the  Pipers  had  "  gone  to  Con- 
cord," Lee  was  made  incredulous  by  the  very  promptness 

1  Beneath  Old  Roof  Trees,  by  Abram  English  Brown. 
154 


BORN       TO       BE      A       REBEL 

of  the  reply.  He  believed  that  it  was  only  designed  to 
deceive  him.  "They  regard  me  as  an  enemy  to  their 
country,  these  Americans,"  he  thought  bitterly,  "and 
would  throw  me  off  the  track."  So  he  stalked  back  to 
his  barracks,  as  disconsolate  a  lover  as  ever  existed. 
"  Those  bright  eyes  were  before  him  wherever  he  went. 
When  on  the  duty  of  a  guard  at  night  he  fancied  their 
tearful  presence."  In  fine,  our  Samuel  was  frightfully 
"love-sick";  the  life  of  a  soldier  lost  all  charm  for  him. 
How  can  a  man  thirst  to  fight  the  enemy  when  he  has 
already  surrendered  to  the  charms  of  a  daughter  of  the 
enemy  ?  And  when  he  believes,  as  well,  in  the  political 
principles  of  the  enemy  ?  This  was  why  Lee  groaned  in 
spirit,  whilst  his  comrades  continued  to  laugh  at  him  and 
to  cry  that  Sam  was  held  prisoner  by  a  Boston  maiden. 

Thus  winter  passed  into  spring.  Nature  seemed  in  her 
most  genial  mood;  nothing  about  her  presaged  the  com- 
ing storm.  But  General  Gage  received  information  in 
April  that  a  quantity  of  powder  and  other  ammunition 
had  been  stored  at  Concord  village  by  the  desperate  pro- 
vincials. He  determined  to  secure  this  ammunition;  and 
from  this  determination  came  the  night  march  of  the  reg- 
ulars from  Boston  and  the  engagements  at  Lexington  and 
Concord  on  April  19,  1775,  when  the  curtain  rose  on  the 
first  act  of  the  drama  of  the  Revolution. 

Among  the  men  who  were  ordered  to  march  to  Con- 
cord was  the  forlorn  Lee.  He  must  have  lacked  the 
enthusiasm  of  his  companions,  who,  only  too  delighted 

156 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

to  get  away  from  their  stupid  barracks,  and  quite  sure 
that  there  was  no  danger  to  apprehend  from  the  country- 
people,  felt  like  boys  about  to  be  released  from  school. 
When  they  heard  that  they  were  to  seize  the  stores  and 
ammunition  in  the  little  Massachusetts  village  they  joked, 
in  their  ignorance,  about  the  ease  of  their  mission. 
"The  name  of  the  place  should  be  Conquered,"  they 
laughed.  To  Lee  the  name  of  the  place  suggested 
Polly  Piper.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  person  who 
told  him  that  the  Pipers  had  gone  to  Concord  might 
have  spoken  truth.  His  heart  bounded  at  the  thought. 
But  it  was  not  a  pleasant  thought.  She  might  be  there, 
and  he  was  marching  to  the  village  as  an  enemy. 

Who  has  not  heard  the  story  of  that  memorable 
march  ?  At  Lexington  there  was  some  shedding  of 
patriot  blood.  Then  and  there  began  the  Revolution. 
Yet  the  regulars  and  their  officers  looked  upon  the 
episode  as  the  cupping  of  some  over-blooded  rustics — 
and  so  marched  on  to  Concord.  It  was  about  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning  that  there  came  the  clash  at  Old 
North  Bridge  when  the  British  received  their  first 
repulse. 

The  first  of  the  minutemen  to  be  in  readiness  for  the 
coming  of  the  British  were  those  in  the  company  of 
Captain  Isaac  Davis,  of  Acton,  that  brave,  god-fearing, 
sedate  Puritan.  As  his  men  were  arranging  their  guns, 
preparatory  to  marching,  they  laughed  and  talked,  much 
as  the  regulars  had  laughed  and  talked  in  Boston  a  few 

156 


BORN       TO       BE      A       REBEL 

hours  before.  They  were  only  too  anxious  for  a  brush 
with  the  red-coats.  But  Davis,  man  of  iron,  rebuked  them 
for  what  he  held  to  be  their  levity.  "  Tis  a  most  eventful 
crisis  for  the  colonies,"  he  said.  "Blood  will  be  spilled; 
that's  certain.  Let  every  man  gird  himself  for  battle,  and 
be  not  afraid,  for  God  is  on  our  side! "  So  the  company 
became  serious  and  silently  marched  away  from  the 
Captain's  house.  Suddenly  he  called  a  halt.  Then 
he  ran  back  to  his  home  to  take  a  last  look  at 
his  wife  and  four  children.  He  had  a  presentiment 
that  he  would  be  dead  ere  nightfall.  He  stood  on 
the  threshold,  tearless,  but  with  a  lump  in  his 
throat.  "Take  good  care  of  the  children,"  he  said,  and 
so  turned  away.  In  another  minute  he  had  rejoined  his 
men.  With  a  mighty  effort  he  forgot  the  father;  again 
he  was  the  soldier.  Later  on  Davis  was  bringing  his 
company  into  position  on  the  highlands  at  North  Bridge, 
taking  the  extreme  left  of  the  line  of  provincials  who  had 
been  hastily  summoned  to  resist  the  British.  Then 
Colonel  Barrett  held  a  council  of  war.  There  were,  per- 
haps, six  hundred  patriots  assembled  here  under  arms. 
Not  so  far  away,  on  yonder  hills,  could  be  seen  the 
gorgeously-clad  forms  of  Colonel  Smith  and  Major 
Pitcairn,  of  the  British  regulars.  While  the  American 
officers  were  at  their  council,  trying  to  determine  what 
to  do,  they  saw  smoke  and  flame  rising  from  Concord. 

"They  have  set  the  village  on  fire,"  cried  one  of  the 
patriots;  "will  you  let  them  burn  it  down?"    Colonel 

157 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

Barrett  and  his  officers  resolved  to  cross  the  bridge, 
march  into  the  town,  and  engage  the  regulars  who 
were  now  there.  "I  haven't  a  man  that's  afraid  to  go," 
cried  Captain  Davis.  It  was  true;  not  one  soul  among  all 
those  men  of  Middlesex  was  afraid  to  go. 

Then  Colonel  Barrett  gave  the  order  to  march  to  the 
bridge,  and  the  minutemen  began  to  move,  deliberately, 
bravely.  Some  of  the  British  were  scattered  about  on 
the  west  side  of  the  bridge,  along  the  Concord  River. 
Mingled  with  the  music  of  "The  White  Cockade," 
played  by  young  American  fifers,  came  the  booming  of 
British  guns.  Then  there  whistled  by  a  volley  from  the 
invaders,  and  Captain  Davis  fell,  never  to  rise  again.  His 
presentiment  had  been  verified. 

"  Fire,  fellow  soldiers!  For  God's  sake,  fire! "  shouted 
one  of  the  colonial  officers,  Major  Buttrick,  as  he  dis- 
charged his  own  musket.  The  command  echoed  along 
the  line.  The  fire  was  returned.  In  the  end  the  British, 
after  being  joined  by  the  regulars  from  Concord,  had 
broken  ranks  and  started  back  to  Boston  in  ignominious 
retreat.  The  Revolution  had  begun. 

"  By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 

Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  fanners  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

"  The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps  ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps." 
158 


BORN      TO      BE      A      REBEL 

But  where  was  our  friend,  the  love-lorn  Samuel  Lee, 
throughout  this  trying  time  ?  When  the  British  regulars 
first  marched  into  Concord,  and  began  their  work  of 
destruction,  he  found  himself  without  heart  for  the 
task.  He  was  so  much  without  heart,  indeed,  that 
one  of  his  fellow-soldiers  cried  sharply:  "Why,  Sam, 
there's  no  life  in  you!  What's  the  matter?"  Lee  might 
have  replied  that  he  found  no  joy  in  fighting  on  the 
wrong  side,  but  he  wisely  held  his  tongue.  Had  he  been 
fighting  the  French  he  would  have  proved,  no  doubt,  as 
brave  as  a  lion;  but  to  wage  war  against  one's  own 
kinsmen,  especially  when  one  of  those  kinsmen  might 
be  a  relative  of  Polly  Piper's,  was  quite  another  thing! 
When  he  reached  the  historic  bridge,  as  Mr.  Brown 
tells  us,  he  "had  no  death-dealing  shot  for  the  yeo- 
men." Neither  did  he  fire  on  the  return  to  Concord. 
As  he  ran  past  the  meeting-house,  however,  he  was  hit 
by  a  bullet  from  an  American's  musket,  and  fell  to  the 
ground  badly  wounded. 

Some  good  Samaritans,  in  the  shape  of  villagers, 
tenderly  came  to  the  assistance  of  the  stricken  regular. 
They  lifted  him  from  the  roadway  and  bore  him  to  the 
house  of  Dr.  Minot,  the  Concord  surgeon.  The  room  in 
which  he  was  placed  presented  an  appearance  of  ghastly 
activity.  Other  stricken  men,  with  blood  flowing  from 
their  wounds,  were  stretched  out  upon  the  floor,  while 
the  Doctor  and  his  friends  were  rendering  what  services 
they  could.  Among  these  friends  was  a  pretty,  pale- 

159 


faced  but  resolute  girl  who  went  about  her  ministrations 
with  the  air  of  a  heroine.  She  was  of  the  stuff  of  which 
many  American  maidens  are  made;  patient,  unflinching, 
and  ready  for  any  emergency.  At  last  she  came  to  the 
almost  unconscious  Lee.  His  eyes  were  closed;  it 
seemed  as  if  he  were  about  to  die.  Yet  the  girl  leaned 
over  him,  unshrinkingly,  and  began  to  dress  his 
wounds.  Surely  she  must  have  started  as  she  gazed 
into  his  powder-grimed  face.  For  she  was  Polly 
Piper. 

She  went  on,  however,  attending  to  the  soldier.  He 
still  had  his  eyes  closed,  as  if  he  would  never  open  them 
again.  Then  Dr.  Minot  came  to  her.  "  Mary,"  he  said, 
giving  her  some  directions.  Lee  opened  his  eyes.  There, 
before  him,  was  Polly  Piper!  From  that  moment  life, 
which  but  a  second  before  had  seemed  to  be  ebbing 
away,  struggled  for  the  mastery.  The  lover  resolved, 
perhaps  unconsciously,  to  get  well;  he  had  something  to 
live  for. 

The  spring  days  passed  on.  Already  the  colonies 
were  aflame  over  the  news  from  Concord,  and  King 
George  would  soon  be  startled  to  hear  that  some  un- 
trained provincials  had  dared  to  fire  on  his  troops.  Na- 
ture smiled  more  and  more;  the  sun  grew  more  genial; 
the  bluebirds  chirped  so  merrily  that  it  was  hard  to  un- 
derstand how  war  could  stalk  in  the  land.  Lee  was 
lying  under  a  colonial  roof.  The  kind  Doctor  was 
amazed  that  the  soldier  should  be  growing  better  instead 

160 


BORN       TO       BE       A      REBEL 

of  worse,  for  the  wound  had  promised  to  be  fatal. 
"You'll  live,  Lee!  "  he  said  at  last. 

Lee  looked  at  Minot  with  a  curious  expression  on  his 
face.  "I'll  not  live  to  go  back  to  the  British  army,  to 
fight  against  such  friends,"  he  answered.  During  the 
weary  hours  of  his  illness  (if  hours  could  be  weary 
whilst  Miss  Piper  was  attending  him)  he  had  made  one 
great  decision.  Never  more  would  he  bear  arms  against 
a  people  whom  he  believed  to  be  in  the  right.  Far  bet- 
ter to  stay  with  them,  and  to  take  up  their  burdens,  if  he 
might.  A  few  days  later  the  Doctor  said:  "You  must 
have  been  in  a  very  healthy  condition  when  the  Yankee 
bullet  struck  you."  For  the  continued  improvement  of 
the  soldier  surprised  him  more  and  more.  Then  Lee 
gave  the  key  to  the  situation.  "  My  mind  has  been  more 
fully  at  rest  since  I  opened  my  eyes  and  saw  Mary  here," 
he  said,  "than  for  many  weeks  before  we  were  ordered 
to  march  out  of  Boston !  "  Now  the  Doctor  understood 
all.  He  began  to  think  that  it  was  Cupid  rather  than 
/Esculapius  who  had  worked  this  wonderful  cure.  And 
what  of  Mary  ?  She  had  found,  as  the  days  went  on, 
how  very  pleasant  it  was  to  know  that  Samuel  Lee  was 
safe  in  Concord,  as  an  invalid,  rather  than  safe  in  Boston 
as  a  well  man.  Her  face  lost  its  paleness;  love  had  en- 
tered her  heart. 

At  last  Lee  was  once  more  on  his  feet.  Some  one 
came  to  him  to  say  that,  as  an  exchange  of  prisoners  was 
in  order,  he  might  return  to  the  British  troops  in  Boston, 

161 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

if  he  so  chose.  But  he  did  not  so  choose.  Never  again, 
he  vowed,  would  he  serve  George  III.  Thus  spring 
passed  into  summer,  and  summer  into  winter.  Then 
Lee  asked  Polly  Piper  the  question  of  all  questions,  and 
she  said  "  Yes."  Then  they  were  quietly  married — she 
an  American  by  birth,  he  one  by  conviction.  Children 
came  to  them,  and  the  Lees  were  a  happy  family  indeed. 
It  was  in  1790  that  Samuel  Lee  died.  For  him,  at  least, 
the  romance  of  life  was  over.  He  had  lived  long  enough 
to  see  the  cause  of  America  triumphant,  and  to  show  his 
loyalty  to  such  a  cause.  He  lies  buried  in  Concord  town. 
Some  of  his  descendants  still  live  in  Massachusetts  to  tell 
of  the  man  who  came  to  this  country  to  fight  the  Amer- 
icans and  ended  by  marrying  one  of  them.  He  died  be- 
fore his  father,  and  never  obtained  the  forgiveness  of  the 
latter  for  his  defection  from  the  Royal  standard.  We 
can  imagine  the  old  English  squire  fuming  and  bluster- 
ing when  he  heard  that  Samuel  had  lost  his  heart  among 
the  "  rebels."  To  the  worthy  gentleman  this  was  worse 
than  death.  It  was  dishonor. 


102 


EDwin  Jforrest  at  the  Bac  oC  Cwentg*0nc 


VIII 
EDWIN      FORREST'S      FIRST      LOVE 

CITIZENS  of  New  Orleans  who  made  a  habit  of 
walking  the  quaint  streets  of  that  gay  town, 
with  its  suggestion  of  flowers  and  Creole  life,  as 
far  back  as  the  spring  of  1824,  often  must  have  seen, 
sauntering  along  in  earnest  converse,  a  curiously  con- 
trasted pair.  The  elder  of  the  two  was  a  man  of  per- 
haps thirty-five  years  of  age,  sinewy  and  not  ill-featured, 
but  with  the  air  of  a  genteel  desperado  who  would  not 
hesitate  to  cut  your  throat  if  actually  put  to  such  an  un- 
pleasant necessity.  The  younger  man  was  a  mere  boy, 
not  more  than  eighteen  or  nineteen,  whose  great  shock 
of  black  hair  effectively  set  off  a  face  which  if  not  over- 
refined  or  spiritual,  or  free  from  sensuality,  was  undeni- 
ably handsome  and  engaging.  The  youth  always  re- 
garded his  friend  with  a  look  in  which  deference,  com- 
radeship and,  withal,  a  certain  air  of  independence  had  a 
striking  combination.  It  was  plain  that  he  was  being 
initiated  by  the  elder  man  into  the  mysteries  of  New 
Orleans  life.  And  there  were  plenty  of  mysteries,  too, 
in  a  town  which  had  so  many  elements,  so  many  types 
of  mankind — French,  American,  Spanish,  aristocratic, 

165 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

plebeian,  high  and  low.  New  Orleans  was  then,  as  it  is 
now,  one  of  the  most  cosmopolitan  places  in  the  New 
World. 

The  youth  was  an  obscure  actor  by  the  name  of  Edwin 
Forrest.  He  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  and  had  been  en- 
gaged, ever  since  he  was  old  enough  to  know  the  value 
of  a  dollar,  in  a  rough-and-tumble  struggle  with  poverty. 
At  thirteen  he  was  working  in  a  ship-chandler's  shop  in 
the  Quaker  city,  while  his  mother  was  keeping  a  tiny 
millinery  store  on  Cedar  (now  South)  Street.  But  there 
was  more  in  him  than  the  spirit  of  a  ship-chandler.  He 
longed  for  the  stage  and  its  elusive  honors.  Once  he  ap- 
peared as  a  girl  at  the  old  "South,"  (the  theatre  wherein 
John  Andre  had  acted),  in  a  sensational  melodrama  en- 
titled The  Robbers  of  Calabria,  but  his  dress  was  so  short 
that  the  heavy  shoes  and  unfeminine  woolen  stockings 
of  the  fair  maiden  were  ludicrously  in  evidence.  "  Look 
at  the  legs  and  feet!"  cried  a  boy  in  the  pit — and  the 
curtain  was  rung  down  amid  an  uproar  of  merriment. 
Young  Forrest  was  sent  home  in  disgrace  by  the  man- 
ager of  the  theatre.  He  solaced  himself  by  waylaying 
in  the  street  that  critical  boy  from  the  pit,  and  treating 
him  to  a  good  thrashing.  Later  he  was  traveling  through 
the  West  as  a  "barn-stormer,"  doing  all  sorts  of  thea- 
trical work,  from  Richard  III  to  a  negro-minstrel  part. 
Then  he  joined  a  circus  company,  in  which  he  displayed 
a  remarkable  talent  for  turning  somersaults.  But  he 
soon  hastened  back  to  the  boards  of  a  theatre,  and  was 

166 


EDWIN     FORREST'S     FIRST     LOVE 

now,  in  this  spring  of  1824,  playing  "  leading  juveniles" 
at  the  American  Theatre,  in  Camp  Street,  near  Gravier, 
New  Orleans.  Such  were  the  humble  beginnings  of  one 
who  was  to  be  known,  ere  long,  as  "The  Great  Ameri- 
can Tragedian." 

Master  Forrest's  friend,  the  man  with  the  air  of  a 
genteel  desperado,  happened  to  be  the  famous  Colonel 
James  Bowie.  His  name  has  gone  down  to  posterity  as 
the  inventor  of  the  effective  "  Bowie  knife."  Mr.  Bowie, 
whose  father  was  a  prosperous  Louisiana  planter  of  good 
family,  had  been  educated  in  a  Jesuit  college.  But  it 
does  not  appear  that  he  imbibed  much  religious  impulse 
from  contact  with  the  Jesuit  fathers.  On  the  contrary, 
he  developed  into  a  fighter,  at  once  reckless,  fearless  and 
dashing,  and  became,  as  it  were,  the  embodiment  of 
the  wildest  element  of  Southern  life. 

To  the  modern  reader  his  career  is  scarcely  known. 
Yet  it  reads  like  an  act  from  a  border  melodrama.  Take, 
for  instance,  his  once-celebrated  duel  with  Norris  Wright. 
The  challenge  came  from  Wright.  Bowie  resolved  to 
use  a  knife  which  he  had  caused  to  be  made  for  just  such 
a  contingency.  He  had  taken  a  file  fourteen  inches  long, 
of  the  kind  employed  to  sharpen  saws;  he  had  carefully 
ground  off  the  file  marks,  and  reduced  the  small  piece  of 
steel,  by  means  of  the  grindstone,  until  it  was  about  the 
weight  and  thickness  he  desired.  Then  he  took  it  to 
"Pedro,"  a  skilled  Spanish  cutler,  who  had  learned  to 
forge  sword  blades  in  Toledo.  "  Pedro,"  after  tempering 

167 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

and  finishing  the  knife,  fitted  it  with  a  cross-piece  and 
haft.  "Now,"  cried  Bowie  enthusiastically,  as  he  sur- 
veyed the  result  of  his  own  ingenuity,  and  the  Spaniard's 
handicraft,  "  I  have  something  fit  to  fight  for  a  man's  life 
with! "  It  was,  indeed,  a  formidable  weapon.  "  Pedro  " 
had  hollow-ground  it  like  a  razor,  with  a  double, edge  for 
three  or  four  inches  from  the  point.  It  was  fitted  with  a 
wooden  scabbard,  covered  with  leather,  and  was  "sharp 
enough  to  shave  the  hair  off  the  back  of  one's  hand." 
This  constituted  the  original  "Bowie  knife,"  which  af- 
terwards underwent  some  modifications  before  it  became 
a  plaything  for  the  general  public. 

Colonel  Bowie  now  felt  secure.  On  the  night  pre- 
ceding the  duel  he  slept  the  sleep  of  a  man  who  is  at 
peace  with  the  world;  in  the  morning  he  arose  with  the 
gayety  of  the  proverbial  lark,  and  ate — as  Louisiana  his- 
tory solemnly  chronicles — a  hearty  breakfast.  An  hour 
or  two  later  Bowie  and  Norris  Wright  were  confronting 
each  other,  in  the  presence  of  some  interested  spectators, 
on  Natchez  Island,  in  the  Mississippi  River.  The  island 
was  a  favorite  haunt  for  Southern  gentlemen  who  had 
little  difficulties  to  settle  without  the  interference  of  the 
police  authorities.  The  fight  began,  quite  cheerfully, 
with  pistols.  One  of  Bowie's  weapons  missed  fire,  but 
both  of  Wright's  bullets  took  effect  upon  his  antagonist. 
The  Colonel  was  seriously  wounded.  Yet  he  kept  his 
ground  with  the  courage  of  a  lion.  The  spectators  held 
their  breath,  and  stirred  uneasily.  "Would  he  be  able  to 

168 


EDWIN     FORREST'S     FIRST     LOVE 

stand  the  ordeal  much  longer?"  they  asked  themselves, 
tremulously. 

Wright,  a  formidable  adversary,  and  lithe  as  a  panther, 
eyed  the  Colonel  with  the  air  of  an  animal  who  is  about 
to  spring  upon  his  prey.  And  spring  he  did  upon  the 
wounded  man,  despite  all  the  rules  of  fairest  warfare. 
"  Bowie's  done  for  now,"  thought  the  friends  of  Wright. 

Bowie,  however,  was  not  "done  for,"  by  any  means. 
He  took  a  step  backward,  pulled  from  a  pocket  his  deadly 
knife,  and  raised  it  on  high,  as  its  cruel  blade  flashed  in 
the  warm  morning  sun.  At  once  three  of  Wright's 
friends  drew  their  revolvers.  Two  of  them  fired — too 
late,  however,  to  save  their  own  champion.  Bowie  had 
made  one  ghastly  cut  at  Wright's  neck.  The  keen  steel 
did  its  work  only  too  well.  Norris  Wright,  already  dead, 
fell  to  the  ground. 

Bowie  himself  was  so  badly  riddled  with  bullets  that 
his  life  was  despaired  of  for  some  weeks.  But  he  re- 
covered, and  distinguished  himself  in  another  year  by 
dispatching  from  this  world,  by  means  of  the  same  knife, 
a  certain  General  Grain.  "My  knife  never  misses  fire! " 
he  remarked  to  one  of  his  chums. 

Of  such  mettle  was  James  Bowie,  and  amid  such 
curious  surroundings,  at  once  luxurious  yet  semi-bar- 
barous, did  he  live.  His  career  had  a  tragic  but  charac- 
teristic termination  some  years  after  his  intimacy  with 
Edwin  Forrest.  In  1835  he  sold  his  estates  in  Louisiana 
and  went  to  Texas.  The  "Lone  Star"  State  was  in  a 

169 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

condition  of  bloody  revolution.  The  sturdy  resistance  of 
the  Texans  against  Mexican  rule  so  exasperated  General 
Santa  Ana,  whose  forces  were  trying  to  crush  them,  that 
he  vowed  he  would  take  no  more  prisoners,  or  give  no 
more  quarter.  Thereupon  Bowie,  only  too  glad  to  court 
danger  and  adventure,  offered  his  services  to  the  young 
Republic,  and  was  at  once  made  a  Colonel  of  riflemen  in 
the  Texan  army.  In  January  of  1836,  he  was  ordered  to 
San  Antonio  de  Bexar  to  assist  in  holding  that  place 
against  the  troops  of  Santa  Ana.  When  March  came, 
the  half-starving  garrison  surrendered.  Then  ensued  a 
general  massacre  which  must  forever  leave  a  dark  stain 
upon  the  memory  of  Santa  Ana.  Among  those  treacher- 
ously murdered,  after  the  Mexicans  had  entered  the  forti- 
fications, were  Colonels  Bowie  and  Crockett.  Bowie, 
who  had  been  badly  wounded  three  times  during  the 
siege,  but  who  had  bitterly  opposed  the  surrender,  was 
lying  on  his  bed  when  he  heard  the  triumphant  Mexicans 
coming  in.  "We  have  surrendered!"  he  muttered.  It 
was  the  first  hint  he  had  been  vouchsafed  that  San  An- 
tonio de  Bexar  had  actually  been  delivered  up  to  the 
enemy.  The  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  of  the  feet  was  to 
him  an  ominous  sound.  He  knew  that  his  life  was 
ended;  he  knew  that  he,  of  all  persons,  would  be  al- 
lowed no  quarter.  Already  some  of  the  Mexicans  were 
rushing  into  his  room.  In  another  minute  they  were 
shooting  at  him,  like  cowards.  But  Bowie  was  not  the 
man  to  die  without  a  struggle.  Jumping  from  his  bed, 

170 


EDWIN     FORREST'S      FIRST     LOVE 

despite  his  wounds,  he  leaped  among  the  invaders  with 
the  glare  of  an  enraged  tiger,  as  he  began  to  slash  at 
them  with  a  knife.  There  was  the  old  time  skill  in  the 
use  of  that  "Bowie."  When  the  firing  ended  "six  of 
the  enemy  had  crossed  the  Styx  with  James  Bowie,  and 
gone  with  him  to  the  shades." 

With  such  a  man  as  Colonel  Bowie  for  a  boon  com- 
panion it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  young  Forrest 
should  look  upon  duels  with  a  lenient,  not  to  say  admir- 
ing eye.  Furthermore,  there  was  hot,  rebellious  blood 
flowing  through  the  veins  of  the  stripling  actor.  His 
father  had  been  a  Scotchman  who  once  peddled  through 
the  Northern  states,  afterwards  becoming  an  humble 
clerk  in  the  Philadelphia  bank  of  Stephen  Girard;  his 
mother  was  a  plucky  woman  of  lower-class  German 
parentage,  and  he  himself  had  been  almost  a  gamin  in  the 
streets  of  the  Quaker  city.  Gifted  with  an  independent 
spirit,  yet  keenly  feeling  his  social  disadvantages,  it  is 
not  strange  that  Edwin  soon  cultivated  a  sort  of  jealousy 
and  an  affectation  of  contempt  for  the  conventionalities 
of  the  polite  world.  He  chose,  foolishly  enough,  to  call 
those  conventionalities  "sham  and  hypocrisy."  Thus  it 
happened  that  when  he  made  a  stir  in  New  Orleans,  by 
the  youthful  fire  of  his  acting,  he  refused  the  olive-branch 
held  out  to  him  by  the  aristocratic  Creoles  of  the  town. 
He  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  upper  strata  of 
Southern  society ;  he  rather  decided  to  cast  in  his  lot  with 
horse-racers,  gamblers,  and  gentlemen  of  a  sporting  pro- 

171 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

clivity.  He  even  went  so  far  in  his  desire  to  be  uncon- 
ventional as  to  become  very  intimate  with  Push-ma-ta- 
ha,  a  Choctaw  chieftain  who  occasionally  graced  New 
Orleans  with  his  manly  presence.  "  What  a  contrast  he 
is,"  cried  Forrest,  speaking  of  the  Indian,  "to  some 
fashionable  men,  half  made  up  of  false  teeth,  false  hair, 
padding,  gloves,  and  spectacles." 

Yet  much  as  Edwin  Forrest  might  philosophize  about 
"fashion,"  and  other  things,  he  was  no  more  a  philoso- 
pher than  was  Romeo,  when  it  came  to  a  love  affair. 
Perhaps,  if  he  had  possessed  a  little  more  of  the  despised 
conventionality,  it  would  have  been  better  for  his  peace 
of  mind  when  he  chanced  to  fall  desperately  in  love  with 
Jane  Placide.  Miss  Placide  was  the  leading  lady  of  the 
American  Theatre,  where  Forrest  was  acting.  She  was, 
furthermore,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  actresses  of  her 
day.  She  might  be  a  year  or  two  older  than  the  budding 
tragedian,  but  what  mattered  that  to  him  ?  We  all  know 
that  callow  youths  are  prone  to  lose  their  hearts  over 
women  who  are  slightly  their  elders.  And  Jane  Placide 
could  well  inspire  even  a  younger  swain  with  the  tender 
passion.  Her  face  had  in  it  not  only  the  beauty  which 
comes  from  regularity  of  feature  and  a  pure  complexion; 
but,  far  more  than  that,  it  possessed  what  the  poet  is  apt 
to  describe  by  the  indefinite  term  of  "soulfulness."  As 
she  was  of  Southern  birth,  so  also  had  she  that  softness, 
and  refinement,  and  sentiment  of  expression  which  one 
sees  so  often  in  the  features  of  those  who  are  born  south 

172 


EDWIN     FORREST'S     FIRST     LOVE 

of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line.  There  was  something  pleas- 
antly emotional  in  her  countenance;  it  suggested  a  feel- 
ing which  is  not  to  be  observed  in  the  Junoesque  type  of 
woman.  When  to  all  this  attractiveness  was  added  a 
vivacity  more  characteristic  of  the  Northern  belle  than  of 
the  Southern  damsel,  it  may  be  imagined  that  Jane 
Placide  was  entitled  to  the  high  place  which  she  soon  oc- 
cupied in  the  hearts  of  the  New  Orleans  public,  both 
masculine  and  feminine.  Her  acting,  too,  was  natural, 
as  befitted  the  granddaughter  of  an  English  artiste  who 
had  been  a  favorite  at  Covent  Garden  and  Drury  Lane. 
She  had  a  talent  for  investing  herself  with  the  spirit  of 
any  part  assigned  to  her,  were  it  grave  or  gay.  She 
could  give  dashing  comedy  sparkle  to  Violante  in  The 
Wonder,  or  put  fire  into  the  turgid  lines  of  some  worn- 
out,  classic  tragedy. 

But  it  was  not  until  Edwin  Forrest  had  spent  some 
time  in  the  Southern  metropolis  that  he  showed  his  love 
for  Miss  Placide.  In  the  rrteanwhile,  the  youth  made 
rapid  strides  in  the  esteem  of  local  theatre-goers,  kept  to 
his  intimacy  with  Push-ma-ta-ha,  and  at  last  incurred  the 
professional  jealousy  of  his  manager,  James  H.  Caldwell. 
Now  it  happened  that  Caldwell,  who  considered  himself 
to  be  a  very  good  actor,  had  not  calculated  on  the  sudden 
success  of  his  handsome  protege  from  Philadelphia.  He 
was  a  man  of  the  world,  a  bon  viveur,  and  a  shrewd 
business  gentleman;  but  he  was  no  more  able  to  resist 
the  "green-eyed  monster  "than  were  less  adroit  speci- 

173 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY  AMERICA 

mens  of  mankind.  When  the  gay  play-lovers  of  New 
Orleans  began  to  rave  about  the  fine  looks,  the  grace  and 
the  wonderful  voice  of  young  Forrest,  the  manager  who 
had  engaged  him,  and  had  sounded  the  Philadelphian's 
trumpet  for  him  in  advance,  began  to  grow  angry.  "I 
did  not  bring  this  Yankee  down  here  to  supersede  me," 
he  thought,  not  without  the  bitterness  of  one  who  sees 
the  pupil  outdistancing  the  master.  Thereupon,  suiting 
the  action  to  his  jealousy,  he  reserved  all  the  heroic  parts 
in  the  plays  for  himself,  and  assigned  to  Forrest  most  of 
the  old  men's  roles.  This  was,  of  course,  a  covert  in- 
sult. To  be  refused  the  impersonation  of  romantic 
characters,  where  good  looks  and  fervor  are  desired,  and 
to  be  relegated  to  the  parts  of  feeble  septuagenarians,  is 
naturally  a  great  shock  to  high  ambition.  But  Forrest, 
who  had  more  self-control  then  than  in  later  years,  bore 
the  ordeal  manfully.  He  played  the  old  men, — played 
them  admirably  too— and  made  no  sign.  He  was  even 
discreet  enough  to  accompany  Caldwell  on  a  trip  to  Vir- 
ginia in  the  autumn  of  1824,  and  play  with  him  in  Rich- 
mond and  other  cities. 

It  was  on  this  expedition  that  Forrest  had  an  amusing 
sight  of  that  great  yet  simple-hearted  man,  John  Mar- 
shall, Chief  Justice  of  the  United  States,  and  author  of 
the  famous  "Life  of  Washington."  The  Chief  Justice 
was  stopping  at  the  same  country  inn  in  which  Forrest 
chanced  to  be  quartered  for  the  day.  The  landlady,  a 
corpulent  female  who,  like  Hamlet,  was  "scant  of 

174 


EDWIN     FORREST'S     FIRST     LOVE 

breath,"  came  out  into  the  old-fashioned  courtyard  to 
catch  an  unsuspecting  hen  to  roast  for  the  dinner  of  the 
distinguished  jurist.  The  hen,  however,  proved  hardly 
as  unsuspecting  as  might  have  been  imagined,  for  she 
had  the  effrontery  to  run  away  from  the  landlady.  The 
latter's  breath  was  soon  spent;  she  waddled  here,  there, 
everywhere,  without  succeeding  in  trapping  the  wary 
fowl.  The  Thespian  and  the  Chief  Justice  looked  on  the 
scene  with  almost  tragic  interest.  At  last  John  Marshall 
could  stand  the  strain  no  longer.  Running  bareheaded 
into  the  courtyard,  his  silver  shoe-buckles  shining  in  the 
sun,  and  his  close  body-coat  and  tight  breeches  revealing 
his  almost  scrawny  form,  he  began  to  clap  his  hands  and 
cry  "  Shoo!  Shoo! "  as  he  chased  the  hen  from  one  point 
to  another.  It  is  gravely  recorded  that  the  fowl  who 
had  eluded  the  fat  landlady  was  no  match  against  the 
wiles,  or  the  imprisoning-power  of  the  lawyer.  He  and 
Forrest  dined  on  chicken  that  day. 

When  the  young  actor  returned  to  New  Orleans,  to  re- 
appear at  the  AmericanjTheatre  late  in  the  winter  of  1824-5, 
Jane  Placide  was  again  there  as  leading  lady.  He 
promptly  "fell  down  and  prostrated  himself  before  her 
shrine."  Forrest  was,  indeed,  at  a  most  impressionable 
age,  and  had  already  been  taking  an  innocent  fling  at  the 
muse  of  Poetry,  albeit  in  pretty  bad  verse.  For  when  a 
certain  "Miss  S"  left  town  he  promptly  sat  down  and 
wrote: 


175 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

"  Ah,  go  not  hence,  light  of  my  saddened  soul  ! 

Nor  leave  me  in  thy  absence  to  lament ; 
Thy  going  sheds  dark  chaos  o'er  the  whole, 
A  noonday  night  from  heaven  sent" 

But  the  affections  of  Edwin  for  the  "Miss  S"  who  so 
cruelly  departed  was  only  Platonic,  after  all.  It  is  very 
easy  to  write  love  verses  without  losing  one's  heart  into 
the  bargain.  There  is  a  more  passionate  ring,  although 
hardly  more  scholarship,  in  some  mysterious  lines  begin- 
ning: 


"To- 


"  Thy  spell,  O  Love,  is  Elysium  to  my  soul. 
Freely  I  yield  me  to  thy  sweet  control ; 
For  other  joys  let  Folly's  fools  contend 
Whether  to  pomp  or  luxury  they  tend." 

We  are  quite  safe  in  filling  up  the  blank  space  after  the 
preposition  "  To  "  with  the  magic  name  of  Jane  Placide. 
Once  that  Forrest  was  back  again  at  the  American  The- 
atre, acting  in  the  same  company  with  this  charming 
Southern  girl,  he  forgot  "  Miss  S,"  or  any  other  passing 
fancy  as  quickly  as  Romeo  forgot  Rosaline  when  he  first 
looked  upon  the  face  of  Juliet. 

Yet  what  misery  there  was  in  that  boyish  love  of  his! 
Caldwell,  the  Envious,  was  himself  in  love  with  the  lead- 
ing woman.  The  youth  set  his  teeth  together  as  he 
thought  of  the  advantage  which  the  manager  enjoyed  in 
such  a  suit.  He,  Edwin,  was  but  the  employee  of  Cald- 
well, and,  worse  than  that,  was  often  condemned  to  play 

176 


EDWIN     FORREST'S     FIRST     LOVE 

old  men's  parts,  while  the  manager  could  impersonate 
any  theatrical  hero  he  chose,  and  make  most  tender 
stage-love  to  the  lady.  It  takes  a  stoic  to  look  with 
equanimity  on  a  rival  who  possesses  so  favorable  a  field. 

Now  the  stoicism  of  a  young  fellow  who  is  worth  any- 
thing cannot  go  so  far  as  to  keep  him  cool  under  such  an 
ordeal.  No  wonder  that  Forrest  clenched  his  hands 
when  he  saw  Caldwell  come  before  the  footlights  in  the 
guise  of  an  Orlando  or  a  Don  Felix  and  say  pretty  things 
to  a  gentle  Rosalind  or  a  sprightly  Violante.  He  began 
to  scowl  angrily  at  his  manager;  he  threw  diplomacy  to 
the  winds;  he  plainly  showed  Mr.  Caldwell  that  he  con- 
sidered him  to  be  a  very  impertinent  fellow.  The  latter 
only  laughed,  like  the  cynical  man  of  the  world  that  he 
was,  and  regarded  poor  Forrest  with  contemptuous  disdain. 

What,  it  may  be  asked,  was  Jane  Placide  doing  all  this 
time  to  encourage  either  of  the  swains  ?  Practically  noth- 
ing, unless  it  might  be  to  look  very  bewitching  both  on 
and  off  the  stage,  and  to  play  heroines  with  a  tenderness 
and  sweetness  that  made  all  the  members  of  her  audi- 
ences, masculine  and  feminine  alike,  her  warmest  admir- 
ers. She  was  more  in  love  with  her  art  than  with  any 
man;  she  liked  the  romance  of  the  boards  better  than  the 
romance  of  real  life;  yet  none  seemed  better  qualified 
than  she  to  grace  the  latter.  One  always  felt  a  desire  to 
quote  poetry  when  Miss  Placide  was  mentioned;  she  sug- 
gested to  the  imaginative  spectator  the  dainty  lines  from 
Twelfth  Night: 

177 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY  AMERICA 

"  Tis  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on  : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruell'st  she  alive 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy." 


Soon,  despite  the  placidity  of  Jane  Placide,  Edwin  For- 
rest's wrath  at  his  rival  could  no  longer  be  kept  in  bounds. 
From  scowls  and  innuendoes,  the  young  actor  proceeded 
to  high  words.  But  how  provokingly  cool  Caldwell  in- 
sisted on  remaining.  How  he  took  delight  in  treating  Ed- 
win as  a  foolish  boy! 

At  last  Forrest,  stung  to  the  quick  by  this  exasperating 
levity,  sent  a  fiery  challenge  to  Caldwell.  The  trouble 
between  them  should  be  settled  by  a  recourse  to  arms ! 
The  energetic  Colonel  Bowie  was,  we  may  be  quite  sure, 
taken  into  the  confidence  of  the  challenger,  and  we  can 
imagine  how  the  fearless  Louisianian  gave  his  protegi 
many  valuable  hints  for  the  coming  duel.  The  coming 
duel,  forsooth!  There  was  to  be  no  duel!  That  provok- 
ing Caldwell  actually  was  merry  when  he  received  the 
challenge.  He  made  some  good-natured  remarks  to  the 
effect  that  Forrest  was  too  young  to  fight,  and  then— yes, 
he  had  the  hardihood  to  laugh! 

Forrest  was  thunderstruck.  Was  he  always  to  be 
treated  like  a  silly  schoolboy?  The  thought  was  un- 
bearable. His  vanity,  of  which  he  had  a  great  deal,  was 
wounded  to  the  quick.  So  he  wrote  off  the  following 
card,  in  his  nervous,  legible  hand: 

178 


EDWIN     FORREST'S     FIRST     LOVE 

"  Whereas  James  H.  Caldwell  has  wronged  and  insulted  me,  and 
refused  me  the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman,  I  hereby  denounce  him  as  a 
scoundrel  and  post  him  as  a  coward. 

"EDWIN  FORREST." 

This  bellicose  announcement  the  young  man  copied 
several  times,  and  posted  the  cards  in  public  places.  "  At 
last,"  he  thought,  "Caldwell  will  be  angry."  And 
with  that  comfortable  reflection  he  hurried  off  to  the 
country  to  spend  a  few  weeks  in  the  wigwams  and  hunt- 
ing grounds  of  Push-ma-ta-ha,  the  Choctaw  chieftain. 
After  all,  thought  the  would-be  duellist,  what  was  civi- 
lized life  to  the  freedom  of  the  woods — particularly  when 
the  object  of  one's  romantic  affections  remained  so  im- 
passive ?  So  he  watched  the  life  of  the  Indians,  learned 
a  few  words  of  Choctaw,  and  admired  the  wild  charms 
of  Push-ma-ta-ha.  This  superb  savage  should  have  been 
preserved  for  posterity  in  the  enthusiastic  stories  of  a 
Cooper,  for  he  is  described  to  us  as  "graceful  and  sinewy 
as  a  stag,  with  eyes  of  piercing  brilliancy,  a  voice  of  gut- 
teral  music  like  gurgling  waters,"  and  with  movements 
"  as  easy  and  darting  as  those  of  a  squirrel."  His  skin, 
"mantled  with  blood,"  was  of  the  "color  of  ruddy 
gold."1 

When  Caldwell  read  the  grandiose  placard  written  by 
Forrest  he  was  unfeeling  enough  to  indulge  in  another 
laugh.  Some  one  told  him  that  the  actor  had  gone 
away  to  visit  Push-ma-ta-ha.  "Humph!"  said  the 

1  Alger's  Life  of  Forrest. 
179 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY  AMERICA 

astute  manager,  "the  boy  is  like  the  Parthian.  He 
wounds  me  as  he  flies."  This  shows  that  Caldwell  knew 
something  of  classic  history,  and,  far  more  important, 
that  he  also  knew  how  to  turn  the  whole  episode  into 
ridicule.  It  was  incumbent  on  him,  as  a  man  of  honor, 
to  treat  the  stormings  of  Forrest  either  seriously,  or  as 
the  idle  vaporings  of  a  lad.  He  chose  the  latter  course, 
and  perhaps  thereby  saved  the  young  Philadelphian  from 
death  at  the  point  of  a  pistol.  In  after  years  Forrest 
himself  could  look  back  to  this  early  trouble  with  amuse- 
ment, and  thank  the  manager,  in  that  rugged,  gnarled 
heart  of  his,  that  there  had  come  no  answer  to  the 
challenge. 

But  who  dare  say  that  Edwin  Forrest  ever  forgot  Jane 
Placide  ?  Indeed,  he  never  did  quite  forget  this,  the  first 
love  of  his  youth.  After  he  had  hunted  for  a  time  with 
Push-ma-ta-ha,  smoked  many  a  pipe  of  peace,  and  duly 
admired  the  charms  which  all  the  Choctaws  possessed 
over  the  more  civilized  whites,  he  traveled  northward 
and  began  slowly  to  climb  the  ladder  at  whose  top  round 
he  encountered  fame  and  material  prosperity.  As 
month  succeeded  month  the  "wound  of  unrequited 
love"  slowly  healed.  Yet,  unto  the  very  end  of  his 
turbulent  career,  he  recalled  with  regret  the  girl  who 
had  made  New  Orleans  seem  to  him  a  chosen-land  of 
youthful  romance.  If  we  follow  that  career  in  latter  life, 
and  read  of  the  dark  days  when  he  separated  from 
Catharine  Sinclair,  his  beautiful  English  wife,  we  find  it 

180 


EDWIN     FORREST'S     FIRST     LOVE 

pleasant  to  turn  back,  for  a  change  of  atmosphere,  to  this 
earlier  page  in  his  history.  Had  Jane  Placide  smiled 
upon  him,  and  joined  her  fate  to  his,  and  had  she  lived 
years  longer  than  she  did,  he  might  have  proved  a  finer 
man.  The  rough  corners  of  his  character  might  have  been 
polished  into  roundness.  As  it  was,  however,  Edwin 
Forrest  stands  before  us  as  one  who,  in  spite  of  all  his 
talents  and  successes,  went  down  to  his  grave  a  disap- 
pointed spirit.  Marriage  with  Catharine  Sinclair  was  a 
ghastly  failure,  both  for  him  and  for  her.  They  even  took 
their  woes  into  court,  and  the  spectacle  was  a  sad  one 
for  all  but  scandal-mongers. 

Jane  Placide  seems  to  have  taken  the  trouble  between 
Caldwell  and  the  actor  with  the  calmness  of  a  woman 
who  cared  for  neither  of  the  rivals.  She  was  always 
thinking  of  her  art;  she  wanted  to  achieve  greatness,  as 
Anne  Oldfield  and  Peg  Woffington  had  achieved  it  in 
other  days.  She  recalled  the  early  trials  of  Siddons.  Ill- 
health,  however,  unrelentingly  dogged  her  footsteps. 
She  went  on  slaving  at  her  profession,  charming  all 
audiences  by  the  sweetness  which  had  entangled  the  heart 
of  Forrest,  until  death  stepped  in  and  claimed  her.  She 
died  in  1835,  and  is  buried  in  a  New  Orleans  graveyard. 
On  a  stone  above  her  grace  is  the  inscription: 

"  There's  not  an  hour 

Of  day  or  dreamy  night  but  I  am  with  thee ; 
There's  not  a  wind  that  whispers  o'er  thy  name, 
And  not  a  flower  that  sleeps  beneath  the  moon 
But  in  its  lines  of  fragrance  tells  a  tale  of  thee." 
181 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

Forrest  was  traveling  through  Europe  when  he  heard 
of  her  death.  "And  so  Jane  Placide  is  dead,"  he  wrote 
in  his  diary.  "  Her  disposition  was  as  lovely  as  her  per- 
son. Heaven  lodge  and  rest  her  fair  soul."  It  was  a 
tender,  graceful  entry;  it  showed  that  all  the  bitterness  of 
disappointed  love  had  departed.  Far  better  than  such 
bitterness  was  the  sweet  recollection  of  a  woman  who 
had  been  all  loveliness. 

Jane  Placide  is  forgotten,  save  by  some  stranger  who 
may  stumble  across  her  grave  and  read  the  legend  thereon 
in  the  light  of  the  warm  Southern  sunshine.  There  is 
pathetic  irony  in  that  inscription  now.  No  one  thinks  of 
her  either  by  "day  or  dreamy  night."  Edwin  Forrest, 
the  last  of  his  family,  sleeps  in  quaint  St.  Paul's  church- 
yard, in  Third  Street  below  Walnut,  in  the  oldest  quarter 
of  Philadelphia.  To  the  present  generation  he  is  only  a 
name,  a  shadow.  Thus  have  passed  away  two  players 
who  once  swayed  the  emotions  of  thousands  of  theatre- 
goers. 


182 


AN  UNCOMPROMISING   TORY 


.fflora  dfcacDonalO  in  DigblanO  Dress 


CnuJdoKt  m  CJfinodDBdft.  moll 


IX 

AN       UNCOMPROMISING       TORY 

IF  one  would  see  how  often  the  history  of  Great 
Britain  is  strangely  connected  with  that  of  Amer- 
ica, let  him  turn  to  the  career  of  that  picturesque 
heroine,  Flora  MacDonald.  She  proved  to  be  a  born 
Tory,  did  this  Scottish  woman  who  fairly  bristled  with 
belief  in  the  "divine  right"  of  Kings  and  other  archaic 
illusions.  Furthermore,  she  looked  upon  the  patriots  of 
the  American  Revolution  as  rebels  who  deserved  hanging. 
Yet,  despite  all  her  sins,  we  pardon  her,  as  we  always 
pardon  the  possessors  of  bravery  and  beauty.  Surely  we 
have  so  far  forgotten  the  bitterness  of  the  War  for  Inde- 
pendence, in  the  lapse  of  a  century  and  a  quarter,  that 
we  can  look  with  kindness  on  one  who  risked  much,  and 
gained  little,  in  the  cause  of  Royalty. 

Flora  MacDonald  had  a  sense  of  chivalry  which  would 
have  done  honor  even  to  a  man — and  man  is  supposed  to 
have  the  monopoly  of  that  dangerous  quality.  She  felt 
sorry  for  the  distress  of  a  fellow-being;  she  was  loyal  to 
the  ambitious  prince  whom  so  many  of  her  countrymen 
looked  upon,  not  unnaturally,  as  their  rightful  King,  and 
(what  is  no  less  potent  in  the  inner  recesses  of  a  woman's 

185 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

heart)  she  was  not  insensible  to  the  attractions  of  a  young 
and  handsome  adventurer. 

Young,  handsome,  and  likewise  a  reckless  adventurer, 
undeniably  was  Prince  Charles  Edward,  grandson  of 
King  James  II,  who  came  over  from  France  in  1745  to 
plant  on  Scotch  soil  the  standard  of  the  royal  house 
of  Stuart.  What  a  flood  of  romance,  by  the  way,  did 
the  name  of  Stuart  suggest  in  the  old  days,  and  what  a 
host  of  enthusiasts  did  it  attract  to  its  hopeless  cause! 
Pedantic  James  I,  the  two  Charleses  and  the  bigotted, 
narrow-minded  James  II,  made  four  of  the  poorest  Kings 
that  England  ever  groaned  under,  yet  they  had  the  saving 
grace,  if  such  it  may  be  called,  of  always  winning  for 
themselves  and  for  their  family  legions  of  devoted,  honest 
adherents.  It  only  goes  to  show  that  men  may  be  de- 
ceivers, inconstant,  unscrupulous,  yet  if  they  represent  a 
popular  principle  they  never  lack  friends,  either  in 
prosperity  or  adversity.  In  this  case  the  principle  was 
that  the  sovereigns  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  ruled  by 
"divine  right,"  rather  than  by  act  of  Parliament. 

It  was  this  "divine  right"  fetich  that  kept  many  a 
Scotchman  and  not  a  few  Englishmen  staunch  Jacobites 
long  after  the  house  of  Hanover  had  been  firmly  seated  on 
the  British  throne.  William  and  Mary  succeeded  short- 
sighted James  II;  then  came  Queen  Anne,  the  last  of 
the  Stuart  sovereigns,  to  be  followed  by  King  George  I 
and  King  George  II,  of  Hanover;  yet,  despite  the  lapse 
of  time,  thousands  of  hearts  still  beat  true  to  the  Old 

186 


AN     UNCOMPROMISING     TORY 

Chevalier  (he  who  called  himself  James  III),  and  to  the 
Young  Pretender. 

So  when  the  latter,  otherwise  "Bonnie  Prince  Charlie," 
arrived  in  Scotland,  to  seize,  if  he  could,  the  birthright  of 
his  ancestors,  there  was  a  mighty  uprising  among  the 
Scottish  clans.  But  we  all  know  how,  in  the  end,  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  Highlanders  and  the  plottings  of  the 
English  Jacobites,  some  of  whom  were  intriguing  under 
the  very  nose  of  phlegmatic  King  George  II,  came  to 
naught.  The  battle  of  Culloden,  in  which  the  High- 
landers were  so  disastrously  defeated,  put  an  end  forever 
to  the  Stuart  dynasty. 

Although  the  dream  of  victory  had  vanished,  there  yet 
remained  one  reality.  Charles  Edward,  the  head  and 
front  of  the  rebellion,  was  still  at  large  in  Scotland,  while 
the  relentless  English  government  was  straining  every 
nerve  to  get  hold  of  the  young  man,  intending  to  send 
him,  after  due  process  of  law,  to  a  place  where  he  could 
no  longer  trouble  the  peace  or  sleep  of  King  George  II. 
When  the  government  had  crushed  an  enemy  irre- 
trievably it  liked  to  complete  the  work  by  getting  well 
rid  of  him.  If  the  Prince  were  captured  his  head  would 
surely  pay  the  forfeit;  it  was  the  fortune  of  war. 

During  his  struggles  to  elude  the  Hanoverian  soldiers 
Charles  Edward  became  a  desolate  wanderer  upon  the 
Long  Island  of  the  Hebrides.  He  lacked  the  actual  neces- 
sities of  life,  yet  he  was  as  cheerful  as  if  he  were  sitting 
on  the  throne  of  his  ancestors.  The  net  was  being  drawn 

187 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

around  him  so  closely  that  escape  to  France  seemed  al- 
most impossible.  At  this  critical  moment  Captain  O'Neil, 
his  Irish  companion  and  Fidus  Achates,  met  Flora  Mac- 
Donald  at  the  house  of  her  kinsman,  Lord  Clanranald. 
Flora  was  the  young  daughter  of  a  deceased  laird  of  the 
island  of  South  Uist,  and  had  but  recently  returned  to 
the  Hebrides  from  Edinburgh,  where  she  had  been  com- 
pleting her  education.  She  was  beautiful  to  look  upon, 
with  her  regular  features,  superb  large  eyes,  waving 
dark  hair,  and  an  expression  that  denoted  both  enthu- 
siasm and  resolution.  Her  voice  was  sweet  and  low, 
and  the  harsher  accents  of  the  Scottish  tongue  were  not 
to  be  heard  in  her  speech.  Captain  O'Neil  explained  to 
her  that  the  Prince  must  be  gotten  out  of  the  Hebrides 
secretly,  and  he  first  proposed  that  she  should  guide  His 
Royal  Highness  (who  was  to  be  disguised  as  a  maid- 
servant) to  the  island  of  Skye. 

Miss  MacDonald  considered  the  idea  "too  fantastical" 
to  be  practicable.  "A  MacDonald,  a  Macleod,  and  a 
Campbell  militia  are  in  South  Uist  in  quest  of  the 
Prince,"  she  said;  "a  guard  is  posted  at  every  ferry;  no 
person  can  leave  Long  Island  without  a  passport,  and  the 
channel  between  Uist  and  Skye  is  covered  with  ships  of 
war."  But  when,  later,  she  was  taken  to  the  Prince,  her 
heart  was  touched;  her  prudence  vanished;  she  resolved 
to  save  him  if  she  could.  "Charles  was  exhausted  with 
fatigue  and  misery;  he  had  become  thin  and  weak,  and 
his  health  was  greatly  affected  by  the  hardships  which  he 

188 


AN      UNCOMPROMISING      TORY 

had  undergone.  He  and  O'Neil  had  lost,  indeed,  the 
means  of  personal  comfort;  they  had  but  two  shirts  with 
them,  and  every  article  of  wearing  apparel  was  worn 
out.  To  a  feeble  mind  the  depressed  state  of  Prince 
Charles's  affairs,  his  broken  down  aspect,  and  the  dangers 
which  surrounded  him,  would  have  inspired  reluctance 
to  serve  one  so  desolate.  These  circumstances,  how- 
ever, only  softened  the  resistance  which  Flora  had  at  first 
made  to  the  scheme  suggested  for  his  escape,  and  renewed 
her  desire  to  aid  him." 1 

Thus  it  was  that  Flora  set  out  from  the  island  of  Ben- 
becula  for  Skye  on  an  evening  in  June  of  1746,  having 
with  her  in  the  open  boat  six  oarsmen,  a  servant,  and  the 
Prince,  who  was  disguised  as  Betsey  Burke,  "an  Irish 
spinning  maid."  So  read  the  passport  which  she  had 
cleverly  obtained  from  her  stepfather,  Captain  Hugh  Mac- 
Donald,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  militia  in  the  vicinity. 
"Betsey's"  clothes,  which  had  been  provided  by  Lady 
Clanranald,  comprised  a  flowered  linen  gown,  a  quilted 
petticoat,  and  a  mantle  of  clean  camlet,  made  with  a 
hood,  after  the  Irish  fashion.  No  one  had  been  merrier 
than  the  Prince  when  he  had  put  on  the  costume:  he 
could  see  humor  even  amid  danger. 

Hardly  had  the  party  pulled  away  from  the  island  be- 
fore a  great  storm  broke  over  their  unprotected  heads. 
It  seemed  as  if  Nature,  like  the  God  of  War,  was  de- 
termined to  present  a  frowning  face  to  poor  Charles 

1  Memoirs  of  Tht  Jacobites. 
189 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

Edward.  The  thunder  was  deafening;  the  waves,  re- 
sembling liquid  mountains,  tossed  the  little  boat  about  as 
if  it  were  a  straw;  the  lightning  flashed  brilliantly,  and 
lighted  up  the  pale  but  undaunted  faces  of  the  voyagers. 
The  more  the  thunder  pealed  and  the  lightning  played 
across  the  gloomy  sky  the  more  did  Flora  MacDonald  cry 
to  the  rowers  to  take  courage,  and  keep  at  their  work. 
The  firm  tones  of  her  voice,  and  the  calm,  undismayed 
bearing  of  the  Prince  inspired  them  to  stay  at  the  oars,  as 
the  tiny  craft  would  sink  down  into  the  trough  of  the 
waters  to  rise  again,  the  next  moment,  on  the  crest  of 
another  wave. 

Suddenly  a  voice,  resolute  and  melodious,  burst  into  a 
wild  Highland  chant.  It  was  the  Prince,  who  now  be- 
gan to  sing  the  Scottish  songs  which  he  had  learned  dur- 
ing his  recent  campaign,  and  who  took  this  way  of 
infusing  into  the  rowers  his  own  fearlessness:  Night, 
seeming  all  the  blacker  by  the  contrast  of  the  lightning, 
now  enveloped  the  scene.  Still  the  pleasant  voice  of 
Charles  Edward  could  be  heard,  either  singing  Highland 
music  or  telling  stories  and  legends  of  the  long-ago.  He 
was  young,  handsome,  attractive,  (characteristics  which 
his  disguise  could  not  conceal)  nor  was  it  hard  to  ex- 
plain, from  the  presence  of  mind  and  the  bravery  which 
he  showed  at  this  critical  juncture,  why  he  had  found  so 
many  idolaters  among  the  clansmen  of  Scotland.  And 
then  his  courtly  manners  towards  Flora!  He  might  have 
been  sitting  next  to  her  in  the  Palace  of  Holyrood,  for 

190 


AN     UNCOMPROMISING     TORY 

not  once  did  he  relax  his  winning  grace  and  air  of  breed- 
ing. No  wonder  that  she  already  felt  for  him  the  chiv- 
alrous devotion  of  a  subject  for  a  beloved  sovereign. 

At  last  the  dawn  came.  The  weary  mariners  were 
near  the  island  of  Skye.  Here  would  be  temporary 
refuge.  But  wait!  What  is  that?  A  band  of  men 
upon  the  shore  ?  They  are  soldiers! 

The  boat  is  turned  away  from  the  land  which  looked 
so  inviting  only  a  minute  before.  Just  in  time,  too,  for 
a  shower  of  bullets  whizzes  around  the  occupants.  The 
soldiers  have  fired  from  the  shore.  The  rowers  now 
send  their  craft  along  in  an  easterly  direction.  In  a  few 
hours  they  have  made  what  they  hope  will  prove  a  safer 
landing.  The  Prince  is  concealed  under  a  hollow  rock 
upon  a  dreary  beach  not  far  from  the  house  of  a  certain 
Sir  Alexander  MacDonald,  Laird  of  Sleite.  Yet  the  Laird 
is  a  friend  to  the  House  of  Hanover,  and  has  no  wish  to 
see  Charles  Edward  on  the  throne  of  his  ancestors. 
How,  therefore,  will  Flora  MacDonald  save  the  young 
adventurer  ? 

Some  women  would  not  have  saved  him.  But  Flora 
is  made  of  different  stuff  from  them.  She  has  mother- 
wit,  and  she  understands  human  nature.  Nor  is  she  in 
any  wise  daunted  when  she  finds  that  the  hall  of  Sir 
Alexander's  house  is  filled  with  British  officers  who  are 
hunting  for  the  Prince  as  so  many  cats  might  seek  some 
elusive  mouse.  Luckily  enough  Sir  Alexander  himself  is 
not  at  home;  but  his  wife,  Lady  MacDonald  is  there,  and 

191 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

to  her  the  girl  appeals  for  aid.  Lady  MacDonald  is  not 
proof  against  the  enthusiasm  and  the  beauty  of  Flora; 
she  says  nothing  to  the  unsuspecting  officers,  and  even 
goes  to  the  length  of  sending  food  to  the  fugitive  on  the 
beach,  by  the  hand  of  the  Laird  of  Kingsburg.  In  truth, 
Lady  MacDonald  is  in  secret  sympathy  with  the  Jacobites. 
The  sooner,  she  says,  that  the  Prince  gets  away  from 
such  close  proximity  to  the  officers  the  better  for  his 
royal  head,  and  for  his  aristocratic  neck. 

The  Laird,  Flora  and  the  Prince  hasten  off  towards 
Kingsburg.  They  are  met  by  some  country-people,  who 
fail  to  recognize  "  Bonnie  Charlie  "  in  the  person  of  the 
lank  Irish  maiden,  Betsey  Burke.  When  the  house  of 
the  Laird  is  reached  his  wife  kisses  Flora  and  Betsey  in 
hospitable  fashion,  but  she  is  amazed  to  find  that  the 
latter  has  a  suspiciously  rough  complexion.  Can  this 
Betsey  be  a  bearded  woman  ? 

We  are  agreeably  familiar  with  the  end  of  the  story. 
Flora,  more  and  more  charmed  by  the  manners  and  bear- 
ing of  the  Prince,  watches  over  his  safety  with  unfailing 
devotion  until  he  leaves  Portaree.  Charles  Edward 
kisses  her  in  farewell.  "Gentle,  faithful  maiden,"  he 
cries;  "I  hope  we  shall  yet  meet  in  the  Palace  Royal!  " 
That  is  the  last  Miss  MacDonald  will  ever  see  of  Charles 
Edward.  There  will  never  again  be  a  Palace  Royal  for 
this  descendant  of  the  Stuarts.  He  will  make  good  his 
escape  to  France,  only  to  degenerate,  as  the  years  glide 

on,  into  a  broken-down  libertine.     No  Stuart  will  ever 
•      192 


AN      UNCOMPROMISING      TORY 

again  disturb  the  peace  of  the  sovereigns  of  the  House  of 
Hanover.  Better  for  the  fame  of  Charles  Edward  had  he 
died  when  leading  a  forlorn  hope  at  the  Battle  of  Cul- 
loden. 

Flora  MacDonald  will  always  think  of  him  with  pas- 
sionate admiration,  and  perhaps  with  a  more  tender  feel- 
ing. Who  shall  penetrate  the  hidden,  inscrutable  recesses 
of  the  feminine  heart,  which  even  a  woman  herself  sel- 
dom understands  ?  But  Flora  must  soon  have  a  care  for 
her  own  life.  She  is  arrested,  brought  to  London,  and 
shut  up  in  the  Tower,  on  the  charge  of  high-treason  in 
aiding  and  encompassing  the  flight  of  the  Prince.  Her 
future  looks  dark,  but  powerful  friends,  headed  by 
Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  secure  her  release,  and  she 
becomes,  for  a  short  time,  the  spoiled  darling  of  London's 
aristocracy.  Then  she  has  an  audience  with  King 
George  II,  the  very  man  whom  Charles  Edward  tried  to 
hurl  from  the  English  throne. 

"  How  dared  you  give  assistance  to  an  enemy  of  the 
crown  ?"  quizzically  asks  the  King. 

"  It  was  no  more  than  I  would  have  done  for  your 
Majesty,  had  you  been  in  a  like  situation,"  she  answers 
adroitly. 

His  Majesty  can  reproach  her  no  further  after  such  a 
retort,  wherein  girlish  simplicity  and  Scotch  shrewdness 
have  so  peculiar  a  combination.  She  goes  back  to  her 
home  triumphantly,  in  a  coach-and-four,  and  afterwards 
marries  Allan  MacDonald,  son  of  the  Laird  of  Kingsburg. 

193 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

Two  years  before  the  breaking  out  of  the  American 
Revolution  that  most  interestingly  crusty  of  philosophers 
and  hide-bound  of  American-haters,  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson, 
visited  the  very  house  at  Kingsburg  in  which  the  Prince 
had  taken  refuge  under  the  guise  of  Betsey  Burke.  The 
good  Doctor  even  had  the  honor  of  sleeping  in  the  same 
bed  wherein  Charles  Edward  had  rested,  for  one  night, 
his  young  but  tired  bones.  Johnson  was  not  ill-pleased 
to  enjoy  the  distinction.  He  was  a  bit  of  a  snob  at 
heart;  association  with  Royalty,  however  remote,  always 
charmed  him.  Perhaps  that  was  why  he  had  no  sym- 
pathy with  our  own  country  when  it  was  struggling  to 
shake  off  the  yoke  of  Royalty,  as  represented  by  the 
House  of  Hanover.  "The  Americans,"  he  growled, 
"are  a  race  of  convicts,  and  should  be  thankful  for  any- 
thing they  get  short  of  hanging!  " 

After  the  collapse  of  the  Rebellion  of  1745,  and  the  es- 
cape of  the  Prince  to  France,  King  George  II  pardoned  a 
large  number  of  Jacobites  with  the  understanding  that 
they  should  emigrate  to  the  American  colonies.  This 
clemency  was  the  cause  of  the  Highland  settlement  upon 
the  banks  of  Cape  Fear  River,  North  Carolina.  It  occu- 
pied a  great  space  of  land  of  which  Fayetteville  is  now 
the  centre.  To  this  Scottish  colony  came  Allan  Mac- 
Donald  in  the  year  1775,  accompanied  by  his  wife,  her 
children,  and  a  number  of  friends.  The  son  of  the  old 
Laird  of  Kingsburg  had  sailed  across  the  Atlantic  to  bet- 
ter his  fortunes  and  find  peace  and  contentment  in  the 

194 


AN     UNCOMPROMISING     TORY 

New  World.  But  there  could  be  little  of  peace  in  a  land 
which  was  about  to  be  convulsed  by  the  throes  of  a 
mighty  struggle.  The  Revolution  was  impending;  men 
who  would  have  preferred  to  till  the  ground,  or  engage 
in  the  budding  commerce  of  the  infant  nation,  were  often 
obliged  to  range  themselves  on  the  side  either  of  royalists 
or  patriots.  There  could  be  no  alternative,  save  for 
mean-spirited  persons  who  tried  to  keep  astride  of  the 
political  fence,  and  hoped  to  descend,  at  last,  upon  the 
winning  field. 

There  was  nothing  of  the  "trimmer"  about  either 
Allan  MacDonald  or  Flora.  They  were  both  staunch 
Tories.  Flora  MacDonald  had  risked  her  life  to  save 
from  imprisonment  and  death  the  scion  of  the  House  of 
Stuart,  and  now  she  was  prepared  to  take  almost  as  great 
a  chance  in  upholding  King  George  III.,  the  grandson  of 
Prince  Charlie's  rival. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  chance  came  for  the  couple 
to  show  their  preference.  General  Donald  MacDonald, 
one  of  Flora's  kinsmen,  and  a  veteran  who  had  fought 
on  the  side  of  Charles  Edward  in  the  battle  of  Culloden, 
was  now  a  doughty  adherent  of  King  George.  !n  the 
spring  of  1776,  when  the  delegates  to  the  Continental 
Congress  were  meditating  the  untying  of  the  bonds 
which  held  them  to  the  mother  country,  Donald  Mac- 
Donald  sent  forth  a  proclamation  calling  upon  the  High- 
landers of  North  Carolina  to  join  him  in  opposing  the 
"rebels."  Thereupon  he  erected  the  royal  standard  at 

195 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

Cross  Creek,  in  that  colony.  How  could  Flora  Mac- 
Donald  resist  the  call  of  one  who  had  drawn  a  sword, 
some  thirty  years  before,  in  defense  of  Charles  Edward  ? 
If  her  relative  could  hasten  to  the  support  of  George  III, 
why  should  not  she  ?  She  saw  not  the  wrongs  under 
which  the  American  patriots  suffered;  she  only  saw  that 
Royalty,  ever  sacred  in  her  eyes,  was  attacked. 

In  a  twinkling  the  woman's  heart  swelled  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  which  had  animated  it  on  that  day,  so  long 
ago,  when  she  had  promised  to  save  a  princely  outlaw. 
In  her  still  handsome  face  was  the  ardor  of  past  youth; 
in  her  breast  was  the  old-time  bravery.  It  was  not 
enough  that  Allan  MacDonald  should  join  the  forces  of 
Donald  MacDonald:  she  must  go,  too,  and  contribute  her 
all  towards  infusing  loyalty  into  the  hearts  of  her  fellow- 
Highlanders.  Thus  we  have  a  spirited  picture  of  the 
Scotch  mother  as  she  moves  among  the  troops  with 
words  of  cheer.  It  is  a  picture  whose  truth  was  once 
contradicted,  but  there  is  every  reason  to  disbelieve  the 
contradiction.  Flora  MacDonald  could  not  have  been 
within  a  hundred  miles  of  soldiers  whom  she  thought  to 
be  fighting  for  the  right  without  going  to  them.  The 
only  wonder  is  that  she  did  not  insist  upon  enlisting,  like 
some  belligerent  Amazon. 

Yet  all  her  enthusiasm  was  to  come  to  naught.  As  she 
had  suffered  for  her  devotion  to  a  prince,  so  would  she 
suffer  for  her  devotion  to  a  king.  At  the  battle  of 
Moore's  Creek  the  Highlanders  were  badly  defeated  by 

196 


AN      UNCOMPROMISING      TORY 

the  Americans,  and  among  those  taken  prisoners  was 
Allan  MacDonald.  General  Donald  MacDonald,  who  had 
been  too  ill  to  take  part  in  the  engagement,  was  igno- 
miniously  captured;  he  was  glad  to  wave  in  the  air,  and 
surrender  to  some  "rebel "  officers,  his  army  commission. 
All  his  proclamations  and  fulminations  against  the 
patriots  had  ended  in  this  humiliating  episode. 

Things  went  badly  for  Flora  MacDonald  after  the  de- 
feat at  Moore's  Creek.  She  was  out  of  joint  with  the 
times:  the  patriotic  Carolinians  looked  upon  her  as  a 
traitor,  and  pillaged  her  plantation,  while  her  husband 
was  a  prisoner  of  war.  Before  Allan  MacDonald  was  re- 
leased she  shook  the  dust  of  Democratic  America  from 
her  feet,  and  set  sail  in  a  sloop  bound  for  the  old  country. 
Her  husband  was  to  join  her  later  in  Scotland,  as  he  did. 
They  wanted  to  end  their  lives  quietly  in  the  Isle  of 
Skye. 

There  was  to  be  one  more  adventure  for  Flora  Mac- 
Donald,  however,  ere  she  might  settle  down  into  a  com- 
monplace personage;  once  more  was  she  to  play  the 
heroine.  During  the  passage  of  the  sloop  across  the  At- 
lantic a  French  war-vessel  hove  into  sight  and  trained  her 
guns  on  the  stranger  bearing  the  British  flag.  There  came 
the  booming  of  cannon,  the  sharp  whistling  of  balls,  the 
crashing  of  timber,  as  shot  and  fire  came  vomiting  from 
the  Frenchman.  The  crew  of  the  little  sloop  were  almost 
paralyzed  with  fright  at  this  sudden  onslaught.  Why 
should  they  fight  back  in  return,  they  cried,  only  to  be 

197 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

sent  to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean  for  their  pains  ?  Were 
they  about  to  surrender  to  the  enemy  ?  That  seemed  the 
only  chance,  of  saving  themselves.  Swish !  How  the  can- 
nister  went  hissing  over  the  vessel!  A  few  more  min- 
utes of  this  sort  of  thing  and  the  sloop  must  either  strike 
her  colors  or  sink  forever! 

One  person,  and  a  woman  at  that,  preserved  her  wits 
and  her  courage.  Upon  the  quarter-deck  stood  Flora 
MacDonald  with  flashing  eyes  and  dauntless  air.  One  of 
her  arms  was  broken,  and  she  was  bleeding  from  a 
wound,  but  her  spirit  was  as  firm  as  ever.  Seeing  that 
her  companions  were  about  to  yield,  she  cried  out  to 
them  to  be  brave,  and  that  the  enemy  might  still  be 
beaten.  The  crew,  first  surprised  and  then  stimulated  to 
sudden  action,  now  turned  the  guns  of  the  sloop  on  the 
Frenchman  with  such  effect  that  the  latter  was  at  last 
driven  off.  Through  all  the  fierce  engagement  we  can 
hear  the  clear  voice  of  Flora  calling  out  "Courage!  "  or 
giving  some  direction.  Such  a  creature  was  better  fitted 
to  play  a  royal  part  than  were  all  the  kings  of  the  House 
of  Stuart. 

Where  was  the  Captain  of  the  sloop  during  the  heat  of 
the  action?  History  does  not  tell  us;  to  Flora  alone 
belongs  the  honor  of  this  engagement. 

On  a  bleak  March  day  of  1790  an  immense  crowd  of 
Scotch  people,  some  three  thousand  in  all,  could  be  seen 
wending  their  way  slowly  and  mournfully  to  the  ceme- 
tery of  Kilmuir,  in  the  Isle  of  Skye.  A  stranger  might 

198 


AN      UNCOMPROMISING      TORY 

have  supposed  that  a  Royal  personage  was  about  to  be 
buried.  But  it  was  a  friend  of  Royalty,  rather  than 
Royalty  itself,  which  reposed  in  the  plain  coffin  in  front 
of  the  rustic  cortege.  Flora  MacDonald  was  dead — and 
her  body  had  for  a  shroud  the  very  sheets  in  which 
Prince  Charlie  had  slept  on  the  night  he  had  taken  refuge 
at  Kingsburg.  It  had  been  Flora's  own  wish  that  this 
should  be  her  covering.  She  had  lived  to  be  an  old 
woman,  but  one  vision  never  faded  from  her  memory. 
It  was  the  vision  of  a  handsome  young  fellow,  the 
picture  of  grace  and  chivalry,  who  had  kissed  her  as  he 
cried:  "I  hope  we  shall  yet  meet  in  the  Palace  Royal." 
It  was  well  for  the  romantic  quality  of  her  enthusiasm 
that  she  never  met  the  Prince  in  after  years.  Old  age, 
intemperance,  and  profligacy,  as  combined  in  the  person 
of  her  one-time  hero,  would  not  have  proved  alluring. 
Assuredly,  had  she  obtained  a  latter-day  view  of  this 
sovereign  who  might  have  been,  she  would  never  have 
been  buried  in  that  peculiar  shroud. 

In  North  Carolina  the  name  of  Flora  MacDonald  still 
calls  up  picturesque  suggestions.  She  tried  hard  to  worst 
us  in  our  struggle  for  liberty,  but  she  was  a  woman  in  a 
thousand.  Let  us  be  gallant  enough  to  forgive  her,  and 
to  hold  her  character  in  admiration. 

"The  town  of  Fayetteville, "  writes  Mrs.  Ellet,  "covers 
the  former  metropolis  of  the  Highland  clans.  It  was 
surrounded  by  a  sandy,  barren  country,  sprinkled  with 

199 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

lofty  pines,  and  the  American  home  of  Flora  MacDonald 
stood  in  the  midst  of  this  waste.  The  place  of  her 
residence  has  been  destroyed  by  fire;  but  her  memory  is 
still  cherished  in  that  locality,  and  the  story  of  her  ro- 
mantic enthusiasm,  intrepidity,  and  disinterested  self- 
devotion,  has  extended  into  lands  where  in  life  she  was 
unknown." 


200 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  GRAEME  PARK 


<3taeme  fcarfc,  Cbc  "KestDence  of  Sir  TKUHiam  fJcitb 


lie  Jo 


X 

THE   GHOSTS  OF  GRAEME   PARK 

GO  out  to  the  bustling  village  of  Ambler,  in  Mont- 
gomery County,  Pennsylvania,  drive  back  into 
the  country,  in  an  almost  easterly  direction,  for 
a  distance  of  three  or  four  miles,  turn  on  an  old-fashioned 
pike  road,  ask  a  great  many  questions  from  the  natives, 
and  circle  around  still  to  the  eastward  for  a  couple  more 
miles — and  then,  if  you  are  very  brilliant,  and  have  a 
largely  developed  bump  of  locality,  you  may  find  your- 
self looking  at  Graeme  Park,  the  old  home  of  Sir  William 
Keith,  one  of  the  early  Colonial  Governors  of  Pennsyl- 
vania. The  house,  which  now  seems  neither  large  nor 
imposing,  is  nothing  more  than  an  old-fashioned,  plain 
brick  structure.  It  suggests,  for  a  human  prototype, 
a  once  respectable  gentleman  who  is  slowly  sinking  to 
his  grave  in  a  state  of  fast-increasing  shabbiness.  You 
wonder  whether  you  have  not  taken  a  deal  of  trouble  and 
traveled  a  long  distance,  only  to  be  disappointed. 
"Relics,"  you  think,  "are  not  always  what  they  are 
thought  to  be!"  You  begin  to  feel  a  sense  of  injury. 
You  have  been  taken  advantage  of  by  some  one. 

But  if  you  enter  the  residence,  and  peer  into  its  nooks 
and  corners,  you  are  soon  in  the  best  of  humors,  if  you 

203 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

possess  any  power  of  imagination  or  any  spirit  of  ro- 
mance. The  rooms  are  bare,  to  be  sure,  and  there  are 
few  signs  remaining  of  former  luxury,  yet  the  whole  in- 
terior has  an  air  of  the  past  that  proves  delightfully  at- 
tractive in  that  melancholy,  pensive  way  that  will  be  ap- 
preciated by  all  who  love  to  roam  through  a  deserted 
home.  In  yonder  dining-room,  with  the  curious  fire- 
place, plump  Benjamin  Franklin  has  more  than  once 
grown  pleasant  over  a  glass  of  Madeira.  In  the  wain- 
scoted drawing-room  some  of  Philadelphia's  greatest 
belles  have  laughed  and  chatted  with  elegant  beaux 
habited  in  rich  velvet  suits  and  silken  stockings.  In  the 
great  bedroom  on  the  second  floor  Sir  William  Keith  has 
slept  uneasily  as  he  saw,  in  his  dreams,  some  bailiff 
breaking  into  the  place  to  arrest  him  for  debt.  During 
a  period  of  many  years  the  now  time-worn  roof  gave 
shelter,  and  the  several  hosts  dispensed  hospitality,  to 
what  was  best  in  the  social  and  political  life  of  old 
Philadelphia.  When  we  wander  through  the  second- 
story,  now  used  for  a  granary,  and  look  out  of  the  anti- 
quated windows,  we  can  fancy  that  we  see  that  wonder- 
ful glass  coach-and-four  of  Sir  William's,  which  afforded 
such  food  for  gossip  to  the  farmers  of  the  neighborhood. 
It  rattles  up  to  the  front  door,  the  proprietor  alights,  and 
comes  stalking  into  the  house.  We  can  even  imagine 
that  there  steals  forth  from  the  shelter  of  a  neighboring 
sycamore-tree  a  seedy-looking  individual  who  holds  in 
his  hand  an  unpaid  bill,  and  who  wonders  whether  he 

204 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  GRAEME  PARK 

had  better  not  wait  to  present  it  until  the  distinguished 
debtor  has  been  put  into  mellow  mood  by  a  copious  din- 
ner. Surely,  we  say  to  ourselves,  so  interesting  a  house 
as  this  should  contain  a  few  well-regulated  ghosts  who 
walk  through  its  deserted  rooms  at  the  mystic  hour  of 
midnight.  Midnight  is  the  accepted  time  for  the  prom- 
enade of  spirits. 

We  ask  the  present  owners  of  the  property  if  they 
have  ever  detected  any  of  these  spirits  making  merry  in 
the  place.  They  smile  and  shake  their  heads  in  the 
negative.  They,  and  their  ancestors,  the  Penroses,  have 
lived  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  old  mansion  for  a 
hundred  years,  but  never  have  any  of  them  come  across 
the  faintest  suggestion  of  a  departed  denizen  of  Graeme 
Park.  So  we  must  bring  our  own  imagination  into  play 
to  people  the  house  with  ghosts.  Nor  is  it  a  difficult  task. 
If  Sir  William  Keith  himself  does  not  nightly  revisit  the 
place  and  flit  from  room  to  room  in  a  weird  endeavor  to 
escape  his  creditors,  then  never  let  us  put  trust  again  in 
the  respectable  belief  that  any  house  of  more  than  a  cen- 
tury in  age  must  be  haunted. 

Sir  William  was  a  fine  example  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury British  aristocrat  who  drank  his  two  quarts  of  wine 
at  dinner,  lived  on  the  fat  of  the  land — always  greatly  in 
excess  of  his  income — and  then,  after  there  was  no  more 
money  in  the  exchequer,  died  in  poverty  and  obscurity. 
There  were  not  a  few  such  gentlemen  who  came  to 
Pennsylvania  in  the  old  days  and  greatly  shocked  the 

205 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

staid  Quaker  element  by  the  lavishness  of  their  house- 
holds and  the  recklessness  of  their  behavior.  For  while 
many  a  Friend  in  Philadelphia  had  a  fondness  for  the 
good  things  of  the  table,  and  was  not  above  sipping  his 
Madeira  on  occasion,  he  could  never  forgive  any  one 
who  spent  money  foolishly.  The  Quaker  was  the  last 
man  on  earth  to  run  up  bills  which  he  could  not  pay:  he 
never  trained  for  the  almshouse.  When  he  could  not 
afford  turtle,  he  did  without  it. 

Sir  William  Keith  was  a  Scotch  baronet  of  noble 
lineage.  While  he  was  not  at  all  successful  in  that  im- 
portant  art  of  making  "both  ends  meet,"  he  possessed 
another  art  which  stood  him  in  good  stead — that  of  win- 
ning friends  to  his  side  by  courtly  manners  and  the  pleas- 
ant, if  not  altogether  high-minded  faculty  of  being  "all 
things  to  all  men."  He  had  a  certain  magnetic  power, 
as  we  would  say  in  these  days,  and  he  could  put  at  ease 
any  one  who  came  into  his  company,  from  the  patrician 
to  the  meanest  laborer.  After  having  held  some  impor- 
tant position  in  the  American  colonies  under  the  British 
Government,  from  which  he  was  removed  on  the  acces- 
sion of  George  I,  he  drifted  from  Virginia  to  Phila- 
delphia, and  then  secured  the  appointment  of  Deputy 
Governor  of  Pennsylvania.  He  brought  his  family  over 
from  England  to  the  Quaker  City,  in  1717,  after  borrow- 
ing money  for  the  expenses  of  the  voyage,  and  soon 
built  for  himself  a  residence  (the  house  of  which  we 
have  already  spoken)  in  Horsham  Township,  Mont- 

206 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  GRAEME  PARK 

gomery  County.  From  that  time  Sir  William  dispensed 
a  lavish  hospitality  at  his  new  country  seat.  Many  were 
the  Philadelphians  who  were  glad  to  accept  of  it,  and  to 
admire,  in  return,  his  beautiful  stepdaughter,  Mistress 
Ann  Diggs. 

Ann  Diggs  was  the  daughter  of  Sir  William's  wife  by 
a  former  marriage.  She  was  soon  married  to  Dr. 
Thomas  Graeme,  a  kinsman  of  her  stepfather's,  and  con- 
tinued to  live  under  the  step-paternal  roof.  As  the  years 
sped  onward,  Sir  William  fell  sadly  into  debt;  his  hospi- 
tality cost  him  dear;  he  returned  to  England  and  finished 
his  once  brilliant  career  by  dying,  in  1749,  an  imprisoned 
debtor  in  the  Old  Bailey.  The  fawning  and  cringing 
gentlemen  who  had  so  often  feasted  at  his  board  had,  ere 
this,  quite  forgotten  him,  unless  it  might  be  to  refer  in 
tones  of  contempt  to  a  man  who  had  spent  money  not 
wisely,  but  too  well.  We  eat  a  spendthrift's  dinners, 
and  pat  him  on  the  back  for  his  champagne  and  terrapin, 
but  when  the  bailiff  stands  upon  his  door-step  we  turn 
our  faces  the  other  way.  Poor  Sir  William  must  have 
often  philosophized  upon  this  sad  fact  as  he  looked  at 
the  iron  gratings  of  the  Old  Bailey,  and  thought  with 
bitterness  of  the  Philadelphians  who  had  been  only  too 
glad  to  doff  their  hats  to  him  in  the  era  of  his  prosperity. 
Little  marvel,  then,  if  his  spirit  returned  to  his  old  country- 
place  in  Montgomery  County,  to  tread  lightly  through 
the  scenes  of  his  former  grandeur. 

After  the  death  of  Sir  William  we  find  Dr.  Thomas 

207 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY  AMERICA 

Graeme  and  his  wife  in  possession  of  the  Keith  home- 
stead, which  has  now  been  christened  Graeme  Park, 
where  they  give  charitable  shelter  to  Lady  Keith,  the 
widow  of  the  unfortunate  baronet.  Dr.  Graeme  was  a 
canny  Scotch  physician,  who  contrived  to  build  up  a 
large  practice  for  himself  in  Philadelphia.  As  he  grew 
old  and  health  failed,  he  lived  more  and  more  at  Graeme 
Park,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  care  of  Elizabeth,  his 
youngest  and  favorite  daughter.  Fragile,  pale,  reflect- 
ive, and  at  the  same  time  comely  to  behold,  the  girl  was 
just  the  one  to  have  a  romantic  career.  And  she  had  it; 
her  whole  life  was  romantic  from  the  time  that  she  fell 
in  love  with  an  unnamed  Philadelphian  until  she  died, 
an  old  woman,  in  the  house  of  a  friend  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Graeme  Park  which  she  had  loved  so 
well. 

Of  Elizabeth's  unfortunate  love  affair  we  know  little  or 
nothing  except  that  we  are  led  to  believe  that  the  swain 
proved  unworthy.  Perhaps  he  jilted  her.  Who  can  say  ? 
She  was  attractive  and  talented,  but  women  of  attractions 
and  talents  had  been  jilted  before  that  time.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  we  are  informed  that  Miss  Graeme  went  to  Scot- 
land to  try,  if  possible,  to  forget  the  lover;  and  that  to 
relieve  her  mind  of  its  burden  of  grief  she  translated  the 
whole  of  Telemachus  into  English  verse.  That  was  a 
solace  in  which  the  modern  belle,  who  never  sickens  in 
the  good  old  fashion  from  disappointed  affection,  would 
hardly  be  likely  to  indulge,  despite  the  fact  that  the 

208 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  GRAEME  PARK 

"new  woman"  is  supposed  to  be  far  more  intellectual 
than  her  sisters  of  past  generations. 

Elizabeth,  however,  was  but  human,  after  all.  On  her 
return  from  abroad  she  took  the  place  of  her  mother, 
now  dead,  as  the  mistress  of  Graeme  Park,  and  aided  her 
father  to  attract  to  that  seat  all  who  had  any  pretensions 
to  literary  proficiency  or  fashion.  At  the  table  of  father 
and  daughter  oftentimes  sat  such  guests  as  the  lovable 
and  Reverend  Mr.  White,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, Elias  Boudinot,  Dr.  Witherspoon,  Richard  Stock- 
ton, and  a  host  of  others  whose  names  were  to  go  down 
into  history.  Then  the  girl — now  a  woman  of  thirty- 
three — so  far  forgot  her  first  love  as  to  yield  her  heart  to 
a  young  Scottish  adventurer  of  three  and  twenty,  who 
affected  a  very  strong  sympathy  with  the  intellectual 
pursuits  of  the  hostess  of  Graeme  Park.  The  youth 
was  one  Hugh  Henry  Ferguson;  and  despite  his  want 
of  years  he  had  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  money  bags 
and  the  landed  property  of  Dr.  Graeme. 

So  the  two  were  married,  albeit  in  strict  secrecy.  As 
it  was  a  forgone  conclusion  that  Dr.  Graeme  would  not 
approve,  the  plan  of  young  Ferguson  was  "  marriage 
first,  confession  afterwards."  But  when  Ferguson  pro- 
posed that  the  confession  should  come  from  his  wife, 
who  continued  to  live  at  Graeme  Park,  that  poor  lady 
shuddered  at  the  thought.  Although  Dr.  Graeme  had 
been  a  fond  father,  there  was  no  telling  how  the  old  gen- 
tleman might  take  this  news.  The  bride  in  very  fear 

209 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

refused  to  say  a  word.  "Then  if  you  tell  not  your 
father  yourself,"  cried  the  groom,  who  was  anxious  to 
make  peace  with  the  good  Doctor  and  his  banker's 
account  as  soon  as  possible,  " /shall  tell  him!  " 

Thus  adjured,  there  was  nothing  left  for  Mrs.  Ferguson 
to  do  save  to  make  the  confession.  Upon  a  cool  autumn 
morning  of  1772,  as  the  father  was  taking  his  daily  walk 
through  the  Park  about  an  hour  before  breakfast,  the 
poor  woman  (for  poor  is  any  woman  who  must  tell  how 
she  has  thrown  herself  away  on  a  worthless  fortune- 
hunter)  crawled  down-stairs  and  waited  for  Graeme's 
return. 

"I  sat  on  the  bench  at  the  window,"  she  afterwards 
wrote,  "and  watched  him  coming  up  the  avenue.  It 
was  a  terrible  task  to  perform.  I  was  in  agony;  at  every 
step  he  was  approaching  nearer!" 

Then  a  strange,  uncanny  thing  happened.  As  the 
frightened  daughter  sat  near  the  window,  trembling  at 
the  thought  that  another  minute  would  bring  her  face  to 
face  with  the  Doctor,  he  suddenly  reeled,  stretched  out 
his  hands,  as  if  for  aid,  and  then  fell  dead  upon  the  path. 
When  his  daughter  reached  him,  the  old  man  was  beyond 
the  hearing  of  any  confession  she  might  have  made.  It 
was  well,  perhaps,  that  he  should  die  at  this  tragic 
moment.  It  almost  seemed  as  if  Providence  had  inter- 
posed to  prevent  a  wretched  scene  between  parent  and 
child. 

Mrs.  Ferguson  was  plunged  in  grief  at  the  Doctor's 

210 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  GRAEME  PARK 

death,  though  her  husband  was,  no  doubt,  more  recon- 
ciled. Did  not  the  worthy  Graeme  have  some  gold  and 
silver  to  leave  behind  ?  And  had  not  Mr.  Ferguson  the 
true  old-world  scent  for  a  legacy  ?  After  the  father 
had  been  buried  with  much  honor,  the  daughter  and 
her  young  husband  settled  down  to  dwell  at  Graeme 
Park,  as  if  they  were  about  to  imitate  the  "  once  upon  a 
time"  lovers  of  a  fairy  tale,  who  always  end  by  "living 
happily  forever  after."  But  the  breaking  out  of  the 
Revolution  put  an  end  to  all  the  dreams  which  Elizabeth 
Ferguson  had  enjoyed.  They  were  dreams  of  books, 
conjugal  love,  Arcadian  pleasures,  and  elegant  idleness. 
The  peace  of  many  an  American  home  was  destroyed  by 
this  bitter  struggle,  and  Graeme  Park  was  to  prove  no 
exception. 

Ferguson  was  not  slow  in  declaring  himself  a  Tory, 
notwithstanding  that  he  had  an  American  wife  and  was 
being  supported  by  American  money.  To  him  the 
patriots  were  merely  misguided  "rebels,"  only  worthy 
of  execution,  and  he  saw  no  reason  why  the  "insurrec- 
tion "  should  not  be  quelled  in  a  few  months.  He  en- 
gaged in  the  British  service,  therefore,  and  gradually 
drifted  away  from  his  wife,  to  die,  at  last,  fighting  in  the 
Flemish  wars.  Thus  Mrs.  Ferguson  lost  her  young  hus- 
band, and  never  learned  to  see  that  she  had  gained  by 
the  deprivation. 

Poor  woman!    She  had  a  great  abundance  of  what 

old-fashioned  authors  called  "sentiment."     She  dearly 

211 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

loved  her  own  country,  but  she  quailed  before  the  horrors 
of  war.  While  many  a  fair  American  was  urging  her 
relatives  to  resist  the  aggressions  and  the  arms  of  Britain, 
be  the  cost  and  the  flow  of  blood  what  they  might, 
Elizabeth  Ferguson's  one  idea  was  to  stop  the  carnage, 
and  bring  peace  between  the  colonies  and  the  mother- 
country.  No  wonder,  then,  that  she  did  some  very 
foolish  things,  out  of  mistaken  zeal,  and  brought  down 
upon  herself  the  wrongful  suspicion  of  being  a  traitor. 

She  loved  animals  of  all  kinds,  were  they  birds,  or 
dogs,  or  the  beasts  of  the  field.  Why  then,  she  reasoned, 
should  man,  the  highest  of  all  the  animals,  be  subjected 
to  the  calamities  of  sword,  fire,  powder  and  bullets  ? 

When  the  Rev.  Mr.  Duch6,  a  faint-hearted  Philadelphia 
clergyman,  wrote  to  Washington  suggesting  that  the 
cause  of  Independence  was  hopeless,  and  asking  him 
to  compromise  with  the  British,  Mrs.  Ferguson  under- 
took to  be  the  bearer  of  the  letter.  Here,  she  thought, 
was  a  chance  for  her  to  bring  this  wretched  conflict  to  a 
close.  But  Washington  became  as  angry  as  it  was 
possible  for  a  man  of  so  well-governed  a  temperament  to 
be:  he  openly  rebuked  Duche,  and  plainly  showed  that 
he  was  nettled  at  the  unseemly  activity  of  the  lady. 

Under  a  date  in  October  of  1777  Washington  wrote  to 
the  President  of  Congress:  "I  yesterday,  through  the 
hands  of  Mrs.  Ferguson,  of  Graham  [sic]  Park,  received  a 
letter  of  a  very  curious  and  extraordinary  nature  from 
Mr.  Duche,  which  I  have  thought  proper  to  transmit  to 

212 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  GRAEME  PARK 

Congress.  To  this  ridiculous,  illiberal  performance,  I 
made  a  short  reply  by  desiring  the  bearer  of  it,  if  she 
should  hereafter  by  any  accident  meet  with  Mr.  Duche, 
to  tell  him  I  should  have  returned  it  unopened,  if  I  had 
had  any  idea  of  the  contents;  observing  at  the  same  time 
that  I  highly  disapproved  the  intercourse  she  seemed  to 
have  been  carrying  on,  and  expected  it  would  be  dis- 
continued. Notwithstanding  the  author's  assertion,  I 
cannot  but  suspect  that  the  measure  did  not  originate 
with  him;  and  that  he  was  induced  to  it  by  the  hope  of 
establishing  his  interest  and  peace  more  effectually  with 
the  enemy." 

Duche  afterwards  went  to  England.  More  than  five 
years  later,  in  seeking  to  pave  a  way  for  his  return  to 
America,  the  clergyman  said,  in  an  apologetic  letter  to 
Washington:  "  I  cannot  say  a  word  in  vindication  of  my 
conduct  but  this,  that  I  had  been  for  months  before 
distressed  with  continual  apprehensions  for  you  and  all 
my  friends  without  the  British  lines.  I  looked  upon  all 
as  gone;  or  that  nothing  could  save  you,  but  rescinding 
the  Declaration  of  Independence.  Upon  this  ground 
alone  I  presumed  to  speak;  not  to  advise  an  act  of  base 
treachery;  my  soul  would  have  recoiled  from  the  thought; 
not  to  surrender  your  army,  or  betray  the  righteous  cause 
of  your  country,  but,  at  the  head  of  that  army,  support- 
ing and  supported  by  them,  to  negotiate  with  Britain  for 
our  constitutional  rights." 

Duche   returned  to  Philadelphia  in  1792,  and  paid  a 

813 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

visit  to  President  Washington,  who  "  manifested  gener- 
ous sensibility "  on  perceiving  that  the  poor  gentleman 
had  suffered  from  a  slight  stroke  of  paralysis. 

Nothing  daunted  by  her  failure  with  the  Duche  letter, 
and  still  intent  upon  her  ambition  to  end  the  war,  Mrs. 
Ferguson  was  sentimental  enough  to  enter  into  the 
schemes  of  Governor  George  Johnstone,  one  of  the  com- 
missioners deputed  by  authority  of  Parliament  to  settle, 
if  he  could,  the  differences  between  America  and  Great 
Britain.  "I  should  like,"  said  Johnstone,  in  his  uninten- 
tionally arrogant  way,  "to  secure  the  influence  of 
General  Reed.  If  you  should  see  him  I  should  like  you 
to  convey  the  idea  that  if  he  could,  conformably  to  his 
conscience  and  views  of  things,  exert  his  influence  to 
settle  this  dispute,  he  might  command  ten  thousand 
guineas,  and  the  best  post  under  the  English  Govern- 
ment." 

"I  question,"  answered  Mrs.  Ferguson,  "whether 
General  Reed  would  not  look  upon  such  a  mode  of 
obtaining  his  influence  as  a  bribe." 

"No  bribe,  my  dear  Madame,"  said  Johnstone,  confi- 
dently. "Such  a  mode  of  proceeding  is  common  in  all 
such  negotiations,  and  one  may  honorably  make  it  a  man's 
interest  to  step  forth  in  Britain's  cause." 

In  fine,  Governor  Johnstone  was  offering  a  bait  which 
he  himself,  as  a  man  of  honor,  would  not  have  consid- 
ered for  one  second.  Mrs.  Ferguson  was  at  last  induced, 
rather  against  her  will,  to  ask  for  an  interview  with  Reed. 

214 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  GRAEME  PARK 

This  she  readily  secured.  When  she  had  repeated  to  the 
General  the  proposition  of  Johnstone,  the  American  re- 
plied: "I  am  not  worth  purchasing;  but,  such  as  I  am, 
the  King  of  Great  Britain  is  not  rich  enough  to  do  it!" 
The  remark  passed  into  history;  from  that  moment  any 
attempt  at  compromise  proved  unpopular,  and  was  re- 
garded as  treason. 

It  soon  leaked  out  that  Mrs.  Ferguson  was  the  woman 
who  had  sought  to  "tamper"  with  General  Reed,  and  the 
patriotic  newspapers  were  quick  to  hold  her  up  to  public 
scorn.  Congress  took  notice  of  the  matter;  the  unfor- 
tunate mediator  was  reduced  to  tears.  "I  own  I  find  it 
hard,"  she  said  plaintively,  "knowing  the  uncorruptness 
of  my  own  heart  to  be  held  out  to  the  public  as  a  tool  to 
the  [British]  commissioners.  But  the  impression  is  now 
made,  and  it  is  too  late  to  recall  it."  Worse  than  all,  it 
was  even  hinted  that  she  had  played  her  thankless  part 
in  order  that  her  husband — whom  she  still  loved  with  an 
ardor  which  he  hardly  deserved — might  gain  promotion 
in  the  British  service.  Then  Johnstone,  to  cap  the  climax, 
tried  to  wriggle  out  of  the  whole  matter  by  proclaiming 
on  his  return  to  England  that  he  had  been  misquoted  and 
misunderstood.  It  is  but  an  example  of  the  way  in 
which  many  of  the  British  treated  the  Americans,  men 
and  women  alike,  through  the  continuance  of  the  whole 
struggle. 

"Among  the  many  mortifying  insinuations  that  have 
been  hinted  on  the  subject,"  wailed  the  distracted  Mrs. 

215 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

Ferguson,  "none  has  so  sensibly  affected  me  as  an  inti- 
mation that  some  thought  I  acted  a  part,  in  consequence 
of  certain  expectations  of  a  post,  or  some  preferment 
from  Mr.  Johnstone,  to  be  conferred  on  the  person 
dearest  to  me  on  earth.  On  that  head  I  shall  say  no 
more,  but  leave  it  to  any  person  of  common  sense  to  de- 
termine, if  I  had  any  views  of  that  kind,  whether  I  should, 
in  so  full  and  solemn  a  manner,  call  in  question  what 
Mr.  Johnstone  has  asserted  in  the  House  of  Commons." 

All  of  which  shows  that  a  woman,  particularly  one 
who  knows  more  of  books  than  of  men,  should  never 
attempt  to  play  the  politician.  Yet  Mrs.  Ferguson,  who 
was  looked  upon  with  suspicion  by  many  of  her  coun- 
trymen, had  spun  with  her  own  hands  a  quantity  of 
linen  which  she  directed  to  be  made  into  shirts  for  the 
American  prisoners  who  had  been  brought  into  Philadel- 
phia after  the  battle  of  Germantown. 

There  is  something  sad  and  pathetic  in  the  end  of  the 
poor  lady.  She  lost  a  great  part  of  her  fortune;  and  lost, 
too,  the  privilege  of  a  home  amid  the  trees  and  fields  of 
Graeme  Park.  The  two  romances  of  her  life — her  love, 
first  for  an  unworthy  lover,  and  then  for  an  unworthy 
husband — were  sad  indeed,  and  she  was  not  sorry  when 
the  end  came.  She  died  in  the  house  of  a  charitable 
friend  near  Graeme  Park,  in  February  of  1801.  Surely 
her  gentle  spirit  must  pay  an  occasional  visit  to  the  home 
of  her  father. 

Of  the  history  of  Graeme  Park  since  its  occupancy  by 

216 


THE  GHOSTS  OF  GRAEME  PARK 

Elizabeth  Ferguson  there  is  nothing  that  needs  the  retell- 
ing. The  old  mansion  itself,  now  sinking  into  decay, 
furnishes  a  chronicle  and  moral  of  the  rise  and  fall  of 
family  grandeur.  If  we  look  at  the  unfurnished  rooms 
we  realize  how  quickly  human  glory  may  fade  away. 
The  place  is  a  sermon  in  stone  more  strikingly  illustrative 
than  the  discourses  of  a  hundred  ecclesiastics.  But  it  is 
pleasant  to  reflect,  if  we  are  fond  of  the  uncanny,  that 
ghosts  must  frequent  the  house,  gliding  in  and  out  the 
silent  chambers  and  peering  gloomily  at  one  another. 
What  a  shadowy  group  to  encounter!  The  elegantly- 
dressed  Sir  William  Keith,  his  dainty  wife,  shrewd-eyed 
Dr.  Graeme  (if  anything  so  ethereal  as  a  spirit  can  look 
shrewd  of  eye),  dignified  Madame  Graeme,  unhappy 
Elizabeth  Ferguson  and  her  scheming  Tory  husband. 
"Scarcely  any  house  in  the  colonies,"  observes  Thomas 
Allen  Glenn  in  his  Colonial  Mansions,  "had  a  career 
more  eventful,  or  sheltered  at  various  times  a  greater 
number  of  distinguished  persons,  some  of  whom  died 
rich  and  great,  whilst  others,  equally  talented,  but  less 
favored  by  that  fickle  jade,  fortune,  perished  in  obscurity 
and  wretched  poverty." 


WASHINGTON    AS    A    WOOER 


pbilipse 


XI 

WASHINGTON       AS       A       WOOER 

TO  the  generality  of  Americans  George  Washing- 
ton— yes,  let  us  be  frank  enough  to  confess  it — 
seems  to  have  been  a  highly  virtuous  but  utterly 
passionless  figure  in  history,  resourceful,  great,  even 
superhuman,  but  cold  as  the  statue  of  some  classic  hero. 
We  are  prone  to  forget  that  the  "  Pater  Patriae,"  as  our 
great-grandfathers  were  fond  of  calling  him,  had  his 
affections  and  emotions,  like  humbler  persons.  We  often 
forget,  too,  that  he  had  a  youth,  much  as  all  others  have 
had  a  youth,  with  its  fancies,  its  illusions  and  its  little 
romances.  It  is  a  pity  to  put  him  on  too  high  a  pedestal, 
for  thereby  we  are  only  turning  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing men  in  the  annals  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  world  into  an 
unnatural,  stupid  automaton  who  always  did  the  right 
thing  in  the  right  place  simply  because  he  could  not  help 
himself.  The  more  human  we  find  George  Washington 
to  be,  the  more  strongly  do  his  self-control  and  honesty 
of  purpose  stand  out  before  us  in  a  clear,  powerful 
light. 

Yet  it  is  only  when  we  study  the  early  life  of  Wash- 
ington that  we  get  satisfactory  glimpses  of  this  humanity. 

Then  we  detect  the  inner  character  of  the  man  before  he 

221 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY     AMERICA 

has  enveloped  himself  in  a  mask  of  impenetrable  will- 
power. Later  on  we  may  catch  a  brief  glance  of  his 
impetuosity,  so  often  curbed  or  hidden  altogether,  when 
he  is  swearing  like  a  trooper  at  General  Lee  on  the  field 
of  Monmouth,  or  angrily  striking  a  blundering  artillery- 
man with  the  flat  of  his  sword  in  a  marsh  near  Gulf 
Mills.  But  these  are  only  occasional  flashes  of  fire.  If 
we  would  see  George  Washington  in  a  truly  romantic 
guise  we  must  take  him  at  the  susceptible  age  when  he 
was  wont  to  sigh,  like  any  other  swain,  for  pretty  maid- 
ens who  frowned  upon  his  love. 

For  the  matter  of  that,  as  the  late  Paul  Leicester  Ford 
has  truly  pointed  out,  "during  the  whole  of  his  life 
Washington  had  a  soft  heart  for  women,  and  especially 
for  good-looking  ones,"  and  was  more  at  ease  with 
them  than  in  his  relations  with  his  own  sex.  But  as 
time  went  on  he  placed  a  break,  as  it  were,  upon  his 
sensations,  so  that  he  could  calmly  write,  not  so  very 
long  before  his  death:  "Love  may  and  therefore  ought 
to  be  under  the  guidance  of  reason,  for  although  we 
cannot  avoid  first  impressions  we  may  assuredly  place 
them  under  guard." 

This  copy-book  maxim  was  one  that  the  future  "  Pater 
Patriae  "  did  not  always  follow  out  in  the  days  of  his 
youth,  when  he  was  ready  to  offer  his  hand  and  heart  to 
the  first  pretty  girl  who  chanced  to  cross  his  path.  Per- 
haps more  than  one  of  those  girls  lived  to  reproach  her- 
self, in  after  years,  that  she  had  not  smiled  on  the  man 


WASHINGTON      AS      A      WOOER 

who  was  to  occupy  one  of  the  proudest  positions  in 
history. 

One  day,  when  still  a  schoolboy  in  Virginia,  young 
George  was  caught  "  romping"  with  "one  of  the  largest 
girls  "  in  the  class,  while  at  the  mature  age  of  sixteen  he 
was  "hopelessly"  in  love  with  a  "Lowland  Beauty,"  as 
he  called  her,  whose  name  has  never  been  authoritatively 
learned.  "  My  place  of  residence,"  he  wrote  to  a  corres- 
pondent from  the  plantation  of  his  patron,  Lord  Fairfax, 
"  is  at  present  at  His  Lordship's,  where  I  might,  was  my 
heart  disengaged,  pass  my  time  very  pleasantly,  as  there's 
a  very  agreeable  young  lady  lives  in  the  same  house 
(Colonel  George  Fairfax's  wife's  sister),  but  as  that's 
only  adding  fuel  to  fire  it  makes  me  the  more  uneasy, 
for  by  often  and  unavoidably  being  in  company  with 
her  revives  my  former  Passion  for  your  Low  Land  Beauty, 
whereas  was  I  to  live  retired  from  young  women  I  might 
in  some  measure  deviate  [sic\  my  sorrows  by  burying 
that  chast  [sic]  and  troublesome  Passion  in  the  grave  of 
oblivion  or  eternal  forgetfulness,  for  as  I  am  very  well  as- 
sured that's  the  only  antidote  or  remedy  that  I  shall  be 
releivd  [relieved]  by  or  only  recess  that  can  administer 
any  cure  or  help  to  me,  as  I  am  well  convinced  was  I 
ever  to  attempt  anything  I  should  only  get  a  denial  which 
would  be  only  adding  grief  to  uneasiness." 

How  charmingly  quaint  and  old-fashioned  is  this  wail 
from  the  heart;  how  like  is  it  to  the  budding  love-sick- 
ness of  any  other  healthy  lad,  and  therefore  how  attract- 

223 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

ive  it  seems.  Yet  through  it  all  shines,  albeit  faintly, 
that  prudent  spirit  which  in  after  years  would  help  to 
make  Washington  one  of  the  most  careful  men  of  a  not 
too  careful  age.  If  he  can  only  get  away  from  feminine 
society,  he  thinks,  he  might  forget  the  "Lowland  Beauty." 
But  as  he  is  not  yet  much  of  a  philosopher  he  goes  on 
loving  the  "Beauty"  until  some  other  belle  usurps  her 
place  in  his  roving  affections.  He  even  takes  to  reading 
and  writing  poetry  and  pens  in  a  book  these  heated, 
unpunctuated  lines: 

"  O  ye  gods,  why  should  my  Poor  Resistless  Heart 

Stand  to  oppose  thy  might  and  Power 
At  last  surrender  to  Cupid's  feathered  Dart 

And  now  Lays  Bleeding  every  Hour 
For  her  that's  Pityless  of  my  grief  and  Woes 

And  will  not  on  me  Pity  take 
He  sleep  amongst  my  most  inveterate  Foes 

And  with  gladness  never  wish  to  wake 
In  deluding  sleepings  let  my  Eyelids  close 

That  in  an  enraptured  Dream  I  may 
In  a  soft  lulling  sleep  and  gentle  repose 

Possess  those  joys  denied  by  Day." 

At  the  same  fervid  period  he  inscribes  an  acrostic  upon 
the  fair  name  of  Frances  Alexander,  the  daughter  of  a 
planter  living  in  the  neighborhood  of  Mount  Vernon.  It 
starts  off  impetuously: 

«'  From  your  bright,  sparkling  eyes  I  was  undone ; 
Rays,  you  have ;  more  transparent  than  the  sun." 

Fancy  the  august  President  Washington,  and  try  to 

224 


WASHINGTON      AS      A      WOOER 

compare  him  to  the  ardent  Romeo  who  sighs  and  talks 
about  "transparent  rays"  or  "bright,  sparkling  eyes"! 
It  is  only  by  such  glimpses  as  these  that  we  learn  to 
know  the  true  Washington,  and  to  admire  him  all  the 
more  because  of  his  undercurrent  of  strong,  fibrous 
humanity. 

At  the  age  of  nineteen  our  hero  had  so  far  forgotten 
several  of  his  earlier  loves  as  to  cultivate  another  "  hope- 
less" and  equally  unrequited  passion  for  Miss  Betsey 
Fauntleroy,  a  young  Virginian  of  undoubted  charm.  Miss 
Betsey,  indeed,  was  so  cruel  as  to  present  the  poor  fellow 
with  the  proverbial  mitten,  and  to  accompany  the  un- 
welcome gift,  no  doubt,  with  kindly  remarks  of  a  sis- 
terly but  wholly  unamorous  nature.  Yet  Washington, 
who  had  even  then  the  quality  of  obstinacy,  determined 
not  to  be  discouraged.  He  resolved  to  try  Mistress 
Fauntleroy  again,  and  to  shake,  if  possible,  that  obduracy 
which  would  make  him  miserable  for  life  if  she  perse- 
vered in  it.  So  he  wrote  a  letter  to  one  of  her  family, 
explaining  that  he  had  been  suffering  from  pleurisy,  but 
promising  himself  the  pleasure  of  once  more  storming 
the  Fauntleroy  fortress.  "  I  propose,  as  soon  as  1  recover 
my  strength,"  he  said,  "  to  wait  on  Miss  Betsey  in  hopes 
of  a  revocation  of  the  former  cruel  sentence,  and  see  if  I 
can  meet  with  any  alteration  in  my  favor." 

Miss  Betsey  was  not,  however,  to  be  won  over.  She 
refused  George  Washington,  and  he  was  left  to  console 
himself  by  gazing  on  some  other  pretty  face.  This  he 

226 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

did,  in  short  order,  and  soon  found  that  he  contrived  to 
keep  quite  cheerful  in  spite  of  the  hard-heartedness  of 
the  young  lady.  It  is  even  said  that  he  went  so  far  in 
his  amours  as  to  fall  desperately  in  love  with  the  wife  of 
his  friend,  George  William  Fairfax.  It  is  probable,  how- 
ever, that  his  intimacy  with  Mistress  Fairfax  was  per- 
fectly innocent,  and  went  no  further  than  the  respectful 
homage  which  he  always  paid,  even  after  his  marriage, 
to  a  handsome  woman.1 

The  most  earnest  of  all  Washington's  love  affairs, 
saving  the  one  which  made  him  the  husband  of  Martha 
Custis,  was  that  of  which  the  elegant  Mary  Philipse,  the 
sister  of  Mrs.  Beverley  Robinson,  was  the  unresponsive 
heroine.  It  was  in  1756,  when  he  was  twenty-four  years 
old,  and  rejoicing  in  a  new-made  military  glory,  that  he 
fell  a  victim — so,  at  least,  says  Dame  Tradition — to  the 
charms  of  this  lady.  He  had  first  electrified  Virginia  by 
his  now  famous  expedition  against  the  French,  and  his 
defense  of  Fort  Necessity ;  afterwards  the  young  officer 
had  behaved  with  the  greatest  bravery  during  the  terrible 
defeat  of  General  Braddock  near  Fort  Duquesne.  All  the 
colonies  had  rung  with  accounts  of  his  gallantry,  which 
seemed  all  the  more  conspicuous  because  it  showed  out 
to  the  astonished  world  in  strange  contrast  to  the 
cowardice  of  many  of  the  English  regular  troops.  Poor 
Braddock,  like  the  narrow-minded  general  that  he  was, 
had  affected  to  despise  the  provincial  soldiers,  and  to 

« Vide  The  True  George  Washington. 
226 


WASHINGTON      AS      A      WOOER 

boast  of  what  his  Englishmen  would  do  when  the  time 
came  for  action  against  the  French  and  Indians.  But 
when  that  time  did  come,  it  was  the  provincials  who  had 
the  most  nerve;  the  English  ran  "like  sheep  pursued  by 
dogs."  Washington  himself  rode  here,  there,  and  every- 
where trying  to  help  the  officers  in  bringing  order  out  of 
panic,  as  the  bullets  whistled  merrily  around  him.  When 
he  returned  unhurt  to  Virginia  his  friends  declared  that  he 
must  lead  a  charmed  life,  in  thus  escaping  from  the 
dangers  of  the  wilderness,  while  an  eloquent  clergyman 
predicted  that  God,  in  having  preserved  the  hero,  was 
intending  him  for  greater  service  to  his  country  in  the 
future.  Many  a  story  was  told  of  the  youth,  during  the 
winter  after  the  massacre  near  Fort  Duquesne,  as  the 
planters  sat  smoking  near  their  blazing  fires,  and  the 
wind,  sounding  like  the  cries  of  the  Indians  who  had 
fallen  upon  the  soldiers,  came  screaming  down  the  great 
chimneys.  Children  listened  as  their  fathers  related  how 
Washington  had  often  warned  Braddock  to  beware  of 
ambuscades;  how  the  General  had  scouted  the  very 
thought  that  his  precious  English  regulars  would  be 
frightened  by  "rascally"  Indians;  how  he  had  sneered, 
too,  when  wily  Benjamin  Franklin  had  ventured  to  say 
that  it  was  no  safe  thing  for  a  long,  thin,  unprotected 
column  of  soldiers  to  wind  through  pathless  forests,  with 
hostile  redskins  hovering  near.  Then  the  planters  would 
lower  their  voices,  and  the  children  would  shudder  with 

a  sort  of  painful  pleasure,  while  the  melancholy  sequel  to 

327 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

all  this  warning  had  recital  in  dramatic  tones.  As  the 
troops  marched  bravely  through  the  woods  to  capture 
Duquesne  they  were  fallen  upon  by  Indians  and  French 
hidden  in  dangerous  ravines,  and  many  of  the  English 
were  slaughtered  as  if  they  had  been  rats  in  a  trap.  Then 
the  story-tellers,  stirring  up  the  flaming  logs,  would 
describe  the  wounding  of  Braddock,  his  pathetic 
despair  as  he  saw,  when  too  late,  that  the  day  was  lost 
by  his  own  rashness — and  then  his  death,  followed  by  a 
forest  burial  with  Washington  reading  the  service  of  the 
Church  of  England.  It  made  a  fine  tale.  Many  a 
little  chap  took  his  candle,  and  went  up  to  his  cold  room 
in  fear,  trembling  as  he  fancied  that  the  wind  without 
was  nothing  less  than  an  army  of  Indians  waiting  to 
break  into  the  house,  to  tomahawk  the  whole  family. 

It  was  the  prestige  resulting  from  this  bravery  under 
Braddock  that  caused  Washington  to  be  treated  with 
welcome  civilities  during  a  trip  he  made  to  Boston  on 
horseback  in  1756.  The  young  Colonel  was  now  com- 
mander-in-chief  of  the  provincial  troops  of  Virginia,  and 
he  journeyed  to  Boston  to  interview  General  Shirley  on 
some  military  business.  On  his  way  he  tarried  in  New 
York,  where  he  was  lavishly  entertained  by  Beverley 
Robinson,  one  of  his  friends  who  was  to  develop  into 
a  Tory  after  the  breaking  out  of  the  Revolution  because 
he  would  disapprove  of  independence. 

No  one  now  had  a  thought  of  Revolution  or  independ- 
ence. All  Americans  were  good  loyalists,  and  Colonel 


WASHINGTON      AS      A      WOOER 

Washington  drank  daily  to  the  health  of  old  King  George 
II,  as  fervently  as  did  the  most  hide-bound  Briton. 
And  when  Mr.  Robinson  lifted  his  glass  at  dinner,  with 
the  accompanying  sentiment  of  "To  His  Majesty/' 
Washington  could  not  foretell  that  in  less  than  twenty 
years  he  would  himself  be  engaged  in  a  life-and-death 
struggle  with  the  grandson  of  this  self-same  "Majesty." 

One  thing,  however,  the  Colonel  did  see,  and  that  very 
plainly.  There  sat  at  the  Robinson  table  Miss  Mary 
Philipse,  the  sister  of  the  hostess,  and  as  she  was  both 
young  and  handsome,  with  a  fascinating  manner  wherein 
dignity  and  cordiality  had  peculiar  mixture,  the  Virginian 
found  an  occasional  look  at  her  face,  and  a  gallant  remark 
dropped  in  her  ear  now  and  then,  a  very  pleasant  occu- 
pation. Miss  Philipse,  in  turn,  admired  the  fine  martial 
bearing  of  this  tall  militia  officer.  She  was  quite  willing 
that  he  should  say  complimentary  things  to  her,  particu- 
larly when  he  reinforced  them  by  bows  of  the  most 
scrupulous  good  breeding.  She  appreciated  breeding, 
for  she  was  the  daughter  of  Frederick  Philipse,  lord  of 
the  manor  of  Philipseborough,  and  had  been  brought  up 
in  a  manner  befitting  a  girl  who  seemed  destined  to  play 
a  brilliant  social  part  in  the  colonies. 

For  the— was  it  the  tenth  or  the  twentieth— time  in 
his  life  Washington  was  completely,  "hopelessly"  in 
love.  The  charms  of  Mary  Philipse  were  too  much  for 
his  equanimity.  He  was  obliged  to  push  on  at  once  to 
Boston,  but  he  resolved  that  he  would  pay  a  visit  under 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

the  hospitable  roof-tree  of  the  Robinsons  on  his  return 
journey  to  Virginia.  He  was  soon  back  in  New  York, 
and  there  is  a  legend  which  says  that  on  a  certain  after- 
noon he  sat  in  deep  converse  with  the  charmer  long  after 
it  was  time  for  the  Robinson  servants  to  light  the  candles. 
Did  he  propose  to  her  in  the  twilight  ?  Was  he  refused  ? 
To  these  questions  the  legend  answers  "Yes."  At  last 
the  Colonel  rode  away,  and  never  saw  Miss  Philipse 
again  until  she  had  become  the  wife  of  Captain  Roger 
Morris,  of  the  British  Army.  After  Washington  had 
reached  Virginia  a  friend  wrote  to  him  that  if  he  wished 
to  win  Miss  Philipse  he  should  hurry  North  as  there  was 
"a  rival  in  the  field."  But  he  did  not  ride  back  to  New 
York.  Probably  he  knew  the  exertion  would  be  useless. 
The  after  years  of  Mary  Morris  were  in  almost  tragic 
contrast  to  those  of  the  man  whom  she  was  believed  to 
have  refused.  Roger  Morris  remained  loyal  to  the 
British  Army  during  the  Revolution,  and  his  wife,  who 
clung  to  his  fortunes,  or  rather  his  misfortunes,  was 
attainted  for  treason.  She  died  in  England  when  ninety- 
six  years  old,  many  years  after  the  remains  of  Washing- 
ton had  been  consigned  to  the  tomb.  It  is  interesting,  if 
somewhat  idle,  to  speculate  as  to  what  would  have  hap- 
pened had  Mary  Philipse  married  George  Washington. 
She  was  a  Tory  by  birth  and  instinct,  and  she  was  like- 
wise a  woman  who  exerted  a  strong  influence  over  those 
with  whom  she  was  brought  into  association.  It  has 
been  hinted  that  had  she  been  the  wife  of  the  Virginian 

230 


WASHINGTON      AS      A      WOOER 

she  might  have  turned  him  into  a  Royalist,  and  thus 
changed  the  pages  of  history.  Yet  to  have  altered  the 
convictions  of  such  a  man,  and  swerved  him  from  what 
he  thought  the  path  of  duty,  would  have  required  a 
power  which,  in  all  probability,  no  woman  in  the  colo- 
nies possessed.  For,  as  any  student  of  masculine  human 
nature  will  admit,  it  is  one  thing  for  a  strong  man  to  fall 
in  love  with  a  pretty  face,  and  quite  another  thing  for 
the  same  man  to  live  under  the  dominion  of  the  same 
pretty  face.  "Washington  could  not  have  been  a  traitor 
\i.  e.,  a  patriot]  with  such  a  wife  as  Aunt  Morris,"  said 
one  of  her  nephews,  more  than  half  a  century  ago.  But 
we  beg  leave  to  disagree  with  this  uncompromising 
Tory. 

After  having  been  refused  by  more  than  one  American, 
it  is  a  pleasure  to  find  Washington  in  the  role  of  a  suc- 
cessful lover  with  the  Widow  Custis.  The  only  wonder 
is  that  a  young  fellow  who  possessed  so  keen  an  admi- 
ration for  the  fair  sex  should  not  have  been  accepted  pre- 
viously by  a  "  Lowland  Beauty,"  a  Betsey  Fauntleroy  or 
a  Mary  Philipse.  However,  we  know  that  the  gallant 
Colonel  had  plain  sailing  into  the  heart  of  Martha  Custis. 
Perhaps  experience  had  made  him  wiser. 

Martha  Washington  began  life  as  Martha  Dandridge, 
the  daughter  of  a  good  family  which  long  before  her 
birth  had  emigrated  into  the  colony  of  Virginia.  At  the 
early  age  of  sixteen  she  was  one  of  the  belles  of  Will- 
iamsburg,  the  capital  of  the  colony ;  at  seventeen  she  had 

231 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY    AMERICA 

married  Colonel  Daniel  Parke  Custis,  a  prosperous  planter 
on  the  banks  of  the  Pamunkey  River.  She  was  soon  left 
a  widow  with  a  fine  fortune  for  consolation.  This  for- 
tune she  managed  with  great  business  skill,  considering 
that  she  lived  in  an  age  when  women  were  supposed  to 
know  nothing  about  business.  Her  other  worldly  pos- 
sessions included  two  fine  children  and  unmistakable 
good  looks.  She  now  had  what  the  old-fashioned 
chronicler  poetically  terms  "the  full  bloom  of  beauty." 
Her  neighbors  soon  began  to  ask  themselves,  with  much 
wise  nodding  of  heads,  whether  the  chatelaine  of  the 
"White  House"  would  not  soon  look  around  for  an- 
other helpmate  who  would  be  glad  to  manage  her 
estate. 

The  months  rolled  on,  and  still  Madame  Custis  re- 
mained single.  At  last,  in  1758,  a  tall,  imposing  officer, 
attired  in  military  undress,  and  accompanied  by  a  body- 
servant,  crossed  Williams's  Ferry,  over  the  Pamunkey 
River,  on  his  way  from  Winchester  to  Williamsburg  on 
official  business.  When  the  ferry-boat  touched  the 
Southern  or  New  Kent  side  of  the  stream  the  gentleman, 
who  was  none  other  than  Colonel  Washington,  was  ac- 
costed by  a  Mr.  Chamberlayne,  a  hospitable  person  living 
in  the  neighborhood,  who  is  described  as  the  beau  ideal 
of  the  Virginian  of  the  old  regime— "the  very  soul  of 
kindness  and  hospitality." 

"You  must  stop  at  my  house  for  the  night,  Mr.  Wash- 
ington," insisted  Mr.  Chamberlayne. 

232 


WASHINGTON      AS      A      WOOER 

"  It  is  impossible,"  answered  the  Colonel,  bowing  po- 
litely. "  I  have  important  business  at  Williamsburg." 

"Ah,"  protested  Chamberlayne;  "you  must  dine  with 
me  at  the  very  least."  And  the  would-be  host  added,  with 
a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye,  that  he  would  introduce  the 
Colonel  to  a  "young  and  charming  widow"  who  hap- 
pened to  be  paying  a  visit  to  his  family.  So  the  Colonel, 
overwhelmed  by  the  insistent  kindness  of  the  Virginian, 
accepted  the  invitation  to  dine,  although  he  announced 
that  he  must  continue  his  journey  before  nightfall.  When 
the  two  reached  the  Chamberlayne  house,  Washington 
was  presented  to  its  occupants,  including  Martha  Custis, 
the  "  young  and  charming  widow." 

The  afternoon  which  the  Colonel  passed  with  the 
widow  has  become  historic.  He  forgot  sweet  Mary 
Philipse,  with  whom  he  had  tarried  so  long  in  much  the 
same  way  that  he  was  now  delaying  with  the  pretty 
widow.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  Mrs.  Custis  was 
delightful;  while  she  in  turn  smiled  graciously  upon  one 
of  whose  prodigious  valor  she  had  heard  many  flattering 
stories.  The  sun  went  down,  and  the  Colonel  so  far 
forgot  his  good  resolutions  to  continue  his  ride  as  to  con- 
sent to  spend  the  night  at  Mr.  Chamberlayne's  house. 
"No  guest,"  said  the  host,  who  began  to  see  which  way 
Cupid  was  shooting  his  arrows,  "ever  leaves  my  man- 
sion after  sunset."  This  particular  guest  made  no  demur. 
Williamsburg  could  not  melt  away;  the  town  would  still 
be  in  existence  if  he  arrived  there  a  trifle  behind  time. 

233 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

The  next  day,  we  are  told,  was  far  advanced  when 
"the  enamored  soldier  was  on  the  road  to  Williams- 
burg."  As  soon  as  he  could  get  away  from  the  Virginian 
capital  he  hastened  back  to  see  the  widow,  and  with 
what  results  all  the  world  knows.  It  soon  began  to  be 
whispered  around  in  New  Kent  County  that  Madame 
Custis  was  to  marry  the  young  officer,  who  was  now  the 
sole  owner  of  the  Mount  Vernon  estate.  More  than  one 
colonist  vowed  that  George  Washington  was  a  "shrewd 
fellow."  So  the  couple  were  married  and  "  lived  happily 
forever  after."  Washington  sighed  no  more  for  "Low- 
land Beauties,"  or  for  beauties  of  any  other  kind,  and 
although  he  never  lost  his  keen  relish  for  a  pretty  face, 
he  made  a  loyal,  chivalrous  husband.  There  is  no  doubt, 
despite  certain  sneers,  that  he  had,  from  the  first,  a 
warm  affection  for  his  wife.  It  was  nothing  to  his  dis- 
credit if  the  lady  chanced  to  have  a  comfortable  fortune, 
which  he  was  able  to  manage  skilfully  and  with  prudence. 

Mrs.  Washington  shines  out  through  the  vanishing 
twilight  of  the  past  as  a  worthy,  matronly  woman,  who 
proved  to  be  just  the  wife  a  man  like  Washington  needed. 
She  was  a  capital  housewife  and  a  well-bred  hostess. 
Although  she  had  a  little  temper  of  her  own,  and  was 
very  human,  she  yet  had  vast  tact  and  sagacity.  A  wife 
who  talked  too  much  might  have  ruined  the  influence  of 
the  General,  while  a  bluestocking  who  tried  to  meddle 
in  statecraft  would  surely  have  quarreled  with  him. 
But  Martha  Washington  was  energetic  without  being 

234 


WASHINGTON      AS      A      WOOER 

gossipy,  and  housewifely  without  being  dull.  It  is  well 
for  America,  therefore,  that  the  "Pater  Patriae"  did  not 
win  a  sprightly  Fauntleroy  or  an  implacable  Mary 
Philipse.  "Mrs.  Washington  appeared  to  me  one  of  the 
best  women  in  the  world,"  wrote  the  Marquis  de  Chas- 
tellux,  and  no  better  epitaph  than  that  can  be  found  for 
the  loyal  wife  who  helped  America  by  helping  her  hus- 
band. 

Shortly  before  passing  away,  Mrs.  Washington  de- 
stroyed all  but  one  of  her  collection  of  letters  written  to 
herself  by  the  General.  The  one  that  she  spared,  which 
refers  to  his  appointment  as  Commander-in-Chief  of  the 
Revolutionary  Army,  contains  a  sincere  tribute  of  affec- 
tion. "  You  may  believe  me,  my  dear  Patsy,"  he  says, 
"  when  I  assure  you  in  the  most  solemn  manner,  that,  so 
far  from  seeking  this  appointment,  I  have  used  every 
endeavor  in  my  power  to  avoid  it,  not  only  from  my  un- 
willingness to  part  from  you  and  the  family,  but  from  a 
consciousness  of  its  being  a  trust  too  great  for  my  capac- 
ity, and  that  I  should  enjoy  more  real  happiness  in  one 
month  with  you  at  home  than  I  have  the  most  distant 
prospect  of  finding  abroad,  if  my  stay  were  to  be  seven 
times  seven  years.  ...  I  shall  feel  no  pain  from 
the  toil  or  the  danger  of  the  campaign;  my  unhappiness 
will  flow  from  the  uneasiness  I  know  you  will  feel  from 
being  left  alone.  I  therefore  beg,  that  you  will  summon 
your  whole  fortitude  and  pass  your  time  as  agreeably  as 
possible.  Nothing  will  give  me  so  much  sincere  satis- 

235 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

faction  as  to  hear  this,  and  to  hear  it  from  your  own 
pen." 

Perhaps  Washington  was  not  so  anxious  to  avoid  the 
command  of  the  army  as  he  hints  in  this  letter;  but  of 
his  regret  at  being  obliged  to  leave  his  wife  there  can  be 
no  possible  shadow  of  doubt.  The  good  lady,  however, 
saw  not  a  little  of  her  lord  and  master  during  the  long 
war.  She  accompanied  the  General  to  the  lines  before 
Boston,  and  witnessed  its  siege  and  evacuation,  before 
returning  to  Mount  Vernon.  At  the  close  of  each  cam- 
paign thereafter  an  aid- de-camp  repaired  to  her  home 
to  conduct  the  mistress  to  her  husband's  headquarters. 
The  arrival  of  the  aid-de-camp  at  headquarters,  "  escort- 
ing the  plain  chariot  with  the  neat  postilions  in  their 
scarlet  and  white  liveries  was  deemed  an  epoch  in  the 
army,  and  served  to  diffuse  a  cheering  influence  amid 
the  gloom  which  hung  over  our  destinies."  Lady 
Washington  always  remained  at  the  headquarters  till 
the  opening  of  the  campaign,  and  often  remarked, 
in  after  life,  that  it  had  been  her  fortune  to  hear 
the  first  cannon  at  the  opening,  and  the  last  at  the 
closing  of  all  the  campaigns  of  the  Revolutionary 
War. 

Think  of  the  letters  which  Mrs.  Washington  destroyed. 
"What  fine  reading  they  would  have  made!"  exclaims 
the  modern  biographer  in  tones  of  regret.  Is  it  always 
"fine  reading  "to  have  matrimonial  confidences  exhib- 
ited for  public  inspection  ?  The  modern  biographer  per- 


WASHINGTON      AS      A      WOOER 

haps  would  not  hesitate  to  publish  the  secrets  of  his  own 
mother,  if  they  had  any  commercial  value.  The  vener- 
able mistress  of  Mount  Vernon  was  wise  in  her  gen- 
eration. 


237 


A    QUAKER    TRANSFORMED 


flbre.  3ames  /foafrison  (5>olls  pa^ne) 


XII 
A          QUAKER          TRANSFORMED 

THE  Quaker,  or,  to  use  a  more  technical  term,  the 
Friend,  has  great  powers  of  adaptability.     Put 
him  into  a  situation,  where  polish  or  even  ele- 
gance is  called  for,  and  he  is  seldom  if  ever  found  want- 
ing.    That  is  because  the  Quaker  has  a  worldly  side  as 
well  as  a  spiritual  side,  and  possesses  a  keen  knowledge 
of  how  to  behave  under  the  most  trying  and  the  most 
unusual  circumstances. 

Let  us  take,  for  example,  the  career  of  Dolly  Madison, 
otherwise  Dolly  Todd,  or  Dorothy  Payne.  This  attract- 
ive American,  who  lived  to  win  the  hearts  of  two  hus- 
bands, and  to  become  the  "First  Lady  of  the  Land,"  as 
mistress  of  the  White  House,  was  born  in  the  then  far- 
away province  of  North  Carolina,  in  the  year  1768.  She 
bid  fair,  at  that  time,  to  develop  into  nothing  more 
startling  than  a  country  maiden  who  would  know  how 
to  spin,  to  make  curds  and  whey,  and  sew  industriously 
at  the  garments  of  some  yeoman  spouse.  "In  truth," 
says  Maud  Wilder  Goodwin,  in  her  blithesome  biography 
of  Mistress  Madison,  "no  one  could  have  looked  less 
frivolous  than  this  demure  schoolgirl  with  the  sober 
gown  reaching  to  the  toes  of  her  shoes,  the  long  gloves 

241 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

covering  her  dimpled  elbows,  and  the  linen  mask  and 
broad-brimmed  bonnet  hiding  her  rosy  face.  Yet  an  eye 
trained  to  fortune-telling  might  perchance  have  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  glittering  chain  about  the  white  neck  under 
the  close-pinned  kerchief,  and  guessed  the  guilty  secret 
of  hidden  finery  which  it  held,  and  which  gave  the  lie 
to  the  profession  of  a  renounced  vanity  which  her  garb 
suggested." 

From  the  first,  indeed,  Miss  Dolly  Payne  was  fond  of 
dress — one  of  those  welcome  sins  from  which  the  best  of 
women  are  by  no  means  exempt — and  she  showed  this 
amiable  weakness  to  her  life's  end.  She  was  named 
Dorothea  in  honor  of  Dorothea  Spotswood  Dandridge, 
granddaughter  of  Governor  Alexander  Spotswood,  who 
afterwards  became  the  second  wife  of  the  silver-tongued 
Patrick  Henry.  Dolly  Payne's  father,  John  Payne,  junior, 
was  a  gentleman  born,  of  English  and  Scotch  extraction, 
and  had  married  the  daughter  of  an  Irishman.  Conse- 
quently the  little  girl  had  the  blood  of  the  three  ancient 
kingdoms  coursing  through  her  veins,  while  the  Celtic 
strain,  with  Its  vivacity,  was  well  accentuated,  despite 
her  Quaker  training  and  traditions.  Her  eyes  were 
merry,  her  hair  black  and  curling,  her  complexion  bril- 
liant, and  her  facile  tongue  suggested  an  ancestry  "not 
unacquainted  with  the  groves  and  the  magic  stone  of 
Blarney." 

Dolly  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  a  large  family  living 
in  Hanover  County,  Virginia,  whither  her  father  had 

242 


A     QUAKER      TRANSFORMED 

gone,  to  superintend  his  plantation,  shortly  after  her  birth. 
Here  she  learned  the  mysterious  arts  of  housewifery,  and 
such  intellectual  accomplishments— not  many,  it  must  be 
confessed — as  it  was  the  custom  to  impart  to  feminine 
minds  in  those  colonial  days.  In  the  meantime  John 
Payne,  her  father,  found  that  the  Quaker  faith  was  not 
duly  appreciated  in  old  Virginia,  and  he  longed  passion- 
ately for  the  more  congenial  surroundings  of  Philadel- 
phia; in  Pennsylvania  a  Friend  was  not  looked  upon  as 
an  anomaly  in  religion.  At  last  he  determined  to  take  up 
his  habitation  on  the  banks  of  the  peaceful  Delaware,  and 
he  began  his  preparations  for  removal  by  setting  at 
liberty  all  his  slaves.  To  do  this  was  to  deprive  himself 
of  a  very  substantial  portion  of  his  property.  But  John 
Payne  had  the  conscience  of  an  Abolitionist  of  later 
years,  though,  unlike  some  of  the  latter,  he  had  a  great 
deal  to  lose  by  yielding  to  that  conscience.  It  is  one 
thing  to  demand  freedom  for  slaves  when  you  have  none 
of  your  own,  and  quite  another  thing  to  cry  for  the  same 
freedom  when  negroes  form  a  goodly  part  of  your 
worldly  possessions. 

It  was  in  1783,  after  the  successful  close  of  the  Revo- 
lution, that  the  Payne  family  arrived  in  Philadelphia. 
Miss  Dolly  was  then  a  sprightly  young  lady  of  about  the 
same  age  that  Miss  Sally  Wister  was  when  she  penned 
her  famous  diary  for  Miss  Deborah  Norris.  Philadelphia 
was  then  a  prosperous  town  of  more  than  thirty  thou- 
sand souls,  with  the  Quaker  element  much  more  in 

243 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

prominence  than  it  became  in  after  years.  Although 
there  was  a  bit  of  Old  World  luxury  and  a  good  deal  of 
fine  dressing  among  the  aristocrats  of  the  town,  including 
the  Chews,  the  Willings,  the  Binghams,  the  McKeans, 
and  the  Cadwaladers,  broad-brimmed  hats  and  poke- 
bonnets  were  still  in  the  ascendency.  It  is  not  surpris- 
ing, therefore,  that  John  Payne  found  the  place  quite  to 
his  liking,  or  that  he  soon  became  prominent  as  a  "  Public 
Friend,"  or  lay  preacher.  If  one  will  take  the  trouble, 
when  in  Philadelphia,  to  walk  to  the  southwest  corner  of 
Fifth  and  Arch  Streets  he  will  there  see  the  old  Free 
Quaker  Meeting  House  (afterwards  used  for  the  Ap- 
prentices' Free  Library  and  now  devoted  to  the  prosaic 
purposes  of  trade)  wherein  the  Paynes  worshiped  on 
many  a  First  Day  after  their  own  impressively  simple 
fashion.  Who  shall  assert  that  during  the  exhortations 
of  her  father,  or  of  some  equally  eloquent  preacher,  the 
mind  of  Miss  Dolly  did  not  stray  from  the  things  of  the 
next  world  to  the  good  times  which  she  hoped  to  have 
in  this  one  ?  For  she  was  already  as  much  of  a  belle  as 
any  demure  Quaker  girl  was  allowed  to  be,  and  many 
were  the  young  Philadelphia  swains  who  gazed,  not 
altogether  unblushingly,  upon  her  violet  eyes  and  wealth 
of  black  curls.  She  was  truly  a  most  charming  Qua- 
keress, whose  religion  seemed  to  be  more  of  an  accident 
of  birth  or  the  result  of  training  than  a  matter  of  con- 
scientious conviction.  Indeed,  had  it  not  been  that  many 
Quaker  maidens  were  quite  as  human  and  as  full  of  life 

244 


A     QUAKER      TRANSFORMED 

as  their  sisters  of  the  Church  of  England  or  of  other 
faiths,  her  vivacity  and  impulsiveness  might  have  been 
regarded  as  an  anomaly.  But  youth  is  youth  all  the 
world  over;  one  cannot  make  winter  out  of  spring;  a 
girlish  heart  beats  as  spryly  under  a  sedate  waist  of  drab 
or  gray  as  it  does  beneath  the  jeweled  bodice  of  a  Court 
beauty. 

Any  one  who  cared  to  study  Dolly  Payne's  character  at 
this  formative  period  must  have  wondered  whether  the 
child,  who  was  now  developing  into  womanhood,  would 
be  content  with  the  quiet  life  of  a  Friend,  or  whether  she 
would  some  day  draft  for  herself  a  declaration  of  social 
independence,  and  plunge  headlong  into  the  gay  world 
which  revolved  about  her  so  swiftly,  so  temptingly.  It 
seemed  for  a  time  as  if  she  were  fated  to  pursue  the  even 
tenor  of  her  ways,  and  settle  down,  at  last,  into  the 
placid,  God-fearing  life  of  a  Quaker  matron.  For,  before 
she  reached  her  twenty-second  year,  there  appeared  upon 
her  domestic  horizon  the  drab-coated  figure  of  a  certain 
Mr.  John  Todd,  junior,  who  sought  her  hand  in  solemn, 
ceremonious  fashion.  After  some  delay  he  was  as  sol- 
emnly and  ceremoniously  accepted.  The  delay  was  oc- 
casioned, as  the  story  goes,  by  Miss  Dolly's  announcing 
pertly  that  she  never  meant  to  marry;  nor  is  it  likely  that 
she  saw  anything  romantic  in  uniting  herself  to  this,  her 
first  wooer.  Mr.  Todd  was  a  Friend,  like  herself,  and  a 
young  fellow  of  unimpeachable  worth,  yet  unimpeach- 
able worth  does  not  always  prove  the  best  road  to  a 

245 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

woman's  heart.  A  little  more  dash,  even  with  a  little  less 
worth,  might  have  made  the  suitor  far  more  attractive  in 
the  eyes  of  the  young  lady.  However,  she  relented,  in 
due  course,  and  was  married  to  John  Todd  (1790)  with 
as  much  6clat  as  the  Quaker  ceremony  would  permit. 
This  Mat  was,  of  course,  not  overpowering.  For  her 
there  could  be,  as  an  after  entertainment,  neither  dancing, 
nor  romping,  nor  the  drinking  of  innumerable  toasts  to 
bride  and  groom. 

It  was  naturally  to  be  supposed  that  a  match  inaugu- 
rated in  such  a  commonplace,  unemotional  way  would 
result  in  a  long,  commonplace  but  tranquil  married  life 
about  which  there  would  be  nothing  striking,  or  pictur- 
esque, or  tragical.  But  it  is  folly  to  prophesy  regarding 
so  uncertain  a  thing  as  matrimony.  The  married  life  of 
the  Todds  was  to  have  a  finale  at  once  pathetic  and 
heroic  enough  to  do  duty  for  the  ending  of  a  novel. 

It  is  a  day  in  the  summer  of  1793,  and  a  mother  lies  in 
the  room  of  a  house  on  South  Fourth  Street,  near  Chest- 
nut, in  Philadelphia.  With  her  is  a  mite  of  a  boy,  her 
second  born.  The  mother  is  Mrs.  John  Todd.  The  man 
who  bends  over  her,  to  look  into  the  plump  face  of  the 
child,  is  her  husband.  He  is  prospering,  as  a  lawyer,  be- 
yond his  expectations,  and  all  the  signs  promise  a  bril- 
liant career.  But  what  words  are  on  the  trembling  lips 
of  some  men  who  are  passing  on  the  street  outside? 
"Yellow  Fever!"  "Yellow  Fever?"  Yes!  Several 
Philadelphians  have  died  of  the  dreaded  disease,  and  the 


A     QUAKER      TRANSFORMED 

one  fearful  question  now  is:  "  Will  it  spread  ?  "  And  it 
is  a  question,  too,  that  John  Todd  has  already  begun  to 
ask  himself,  even  though  he  has  not  dared  breathe  it  to 
his  wife. 

As  the  days  go  on  the  dreaded  thing  fastens  its  grip 
upon  the  city.  Hundreds  of  citizens  are  stricken  down, 
to  die  in  a  few  hours  like  dogs,  and  a  dull  fear,  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  a  ghastly  panic,  hangs  pall-like  over  the  town 
once  so  serene  and  healthy.  Neighbors  fear  to  look 
upon  one  another,  lest  they  catch  the  fever;  funerals  in- 
crease; bells  toll;  business  is  suspended;  King  Death 
reigns  supreme.  Soon  there  is  a  mad  rush  to  get  away 
from  the  polluted  place.  Any  man  who  has  a  wagon, 
or  who  can  beg,  borrow  or  buy  one,  drives  his  family 
out  into  the  country,  as  far  away  as  possible  from  the 
awful  Visitor.  John  Todd  cannot  allow  his  wife  and 
children  to  perish.  So  he  takes  them,  his  wife  on  a 
litter,  to  the  then  sylvan  spot  known  as  Gray's  Ferry, 
and  he  himself  bravely  returns  to  Philadelphia  to  do  what 
he  can  for  the  stricken  city.  Here  he  is  met  by  the  death 
of  his  mother  and  father,  who  fall  victims  to  the  relent- 
less plague.  Dolly  Todd  sends  tearful  messages  to  him, 
begging  him  to  join  her  at  Gray's  Ferry,  and  to  save  his 
own  life.  He  must  stay  long  enough  in  Philadelphia,  he 
says,  to  help  his  friends  and  clients — then,  and  not  until 
then,  will  he  leave  the  town. 

At  last  John  Todd,  having  faithfully  done  his  duty  to 
his  neighbor,  returns  to  Gray's  Ferry,  but  with  the  seeds 

847 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

of  the  fever  lurking  in  his  system.  The  brave  man 
sickens  and  dies,  after  but  a  few  days'  illness;  Dolly 
Todd,  who  has  been  reckless  enough  to  throw  herself 
into  her  husband's  arms  upon  his  arrival,  also  takes  the 
fever.  For  three  weeks  her  life  is  despaired  of;  the 
physician  shakes  his  head;  he  has  no  hope.  Perhaps,  in 
her  delirium,  the  poor  woman  cries  out  for  Death  to  re- 
lease her,  for  now  her  new-born  child  has  followed  his 
father  across  the  dark  river. 

After  a  time  the  plague,  satisfied  with  so  ample  a  har- 
vest, released  its  clutch  upon  suffering  Philadelphia. 
People  began  to  return  to  town.  Among  them  came 
Mrs.  Todd,  who  looked,  and  felt  indeed,  quite  heart- 
broken. It  hardly  seemed  as  if  she  could  ever  again 
"take  notice,"  as  old  time  gossips  were  wont  to  say  of 
so  many  youthful  widows.  John  Todd  had  bequeathed 
his  meagre  estate  to  Dolly,  whom  he  called  in  his  will 
"  the  dear  wife  of  my  bosom,  and  first  and  only  woman 
upon  whom  my  all  and  only  affections  were  placed." 
So,  with  little  or  no  worldly  means,  there  was  but  one 
thing  left  for  the  widow  to  do.  That  she  did  pluckily, 
and  thus,  unconsciously  paved  the  way  for  all  her  future 
splendor.  She  took  her  first-born  boy,  and  went  to  help 
her  mother  keep  a  little  Philadelphia  boarding-house. 
Old  Mr.  Payne,  Dolly's  father,  had  died  a  ruined  man, 
financially  speaking,  so  that  the  other  members  of  the 
Payne  family,  who  had  learned  the  rules  of  hospitality  in 
open-hearted  Virginia,  were  now  obliged  to  exercise  the 

248 


A      QUAKER      TRANSFORMED 

same  hospitality  at  so  much  per  head.  And  it  must  be 
admitted  that  in  the  exercise  of  this  virtue  the  stricken 
Dolly  aided  materially,  for  she  began  to  "take  notice" 
with  a  suddenness  that  must  have  surprised  some  of  her 
friends.  Yet  it  would  have  required  half  a  hundred  tons 
of  iron  to  crush  a  woman  whom  Nature  had  endowed 
with  such  a  perpetual  flow  of  animal  spirits. 

Now  it  chanced  that  in  1794  there  was  living  under 
Mrs.  Payne's  roof  a  gentleman  who  was  later  to  play  a 
prominent  and  discreditable  part  in  the  history  of  his 
country.  This  was  Aaron  Burr,  a  future  Vice-President 
of  the  United  States  and  the  future  slayer  of  the  noble 
Alexander  Hamilton.  At  present,  however,  Colonel 
Burr  was  a  shrewd  statesman,  who  took  part  in  the 
deliberations  of  Congress,  now  sitting  in  Philadelphia, 
and  who  was  distinguished  for  his  charming  manners,  as 
well  as  for  the  silly  way  in  which  he  was  worshiped  by 
some  emotional  females.  Dolly  Todd,  however,  was  not 
one  of  those  emotional  females.  Mistress  Todd  was  al- 
ready something  of  a  woman  of  the  world,  so  it  is  safe 
to  infer  that  she  had  a  fairly  good  understanding  of  the 
character  of  this  slippery  patriot.  Nor  does  it  appear 
that  Burr  lost  his  heart,  if  he  ever  had  such  a  piece  of 
anatomy,  over  the  attractions  of  the  sparkling  widow. 
On  the  contrary,  he  was  trying  to  make  a  match  between 
her  and  a  friend  of  his,  and  doing  it  with  as  much  zest 
in  the  work  as  if  he  had  been  some  designing  mamma. 

This  friend  was,  of  course,  James  Madison,  of  Virginia, 

249 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

who  had  already  done  much  to  serve  his  country,  and 
who  was  destined  to  do  still  more  by  becoming  one  of 
her  Presidents.  He  was  a  staid,  ungraceful  little 
bachelor  of  over  forty,  who  had  experienced  one  unsuc- 
cessful love  affair  a  few  years  before,  when  a  Long  Is- 
land maiden  followed  up  her  first  acceptance  of  his  ad- 
dresses by  jilting  him  in  the  most  ignominious  way  for  a 
musically-inclined  parson.  The  parson  was  a  clever 
fellow,  for  he  hung  around  the  young  lady  whenever  she 
played  the  harpsichord — a  bit  of  gallantry  of  which  the 
solemn  Madison  would  have  been  quite  incapable — and 
wheedled  his  way  so  effectively  into  her  heart  that  she 
soon  sent  the  statesman  to  the  right-about. 

But  Time,  the  great  consoler  of  hapless  lovers,  gradu- 
ally effaced  from  James  Madison's  mind  the  image  of  this 
cruel  damsel.  The  consequence  was  that  when  he  came 
to  Philadelphia,  and  saw  from  a  distance  the  sweet  com- 
plexion and  lovely  eyes  of  Dolly  Todd,  he  was  seized 
with  a  sudden  desire  to  be  "  presented  "  to  the  lady.  He 
confided  his  wish  to  Colonel  Burr,  who  promptly,  and, 
no  doubt,  with  a  degree  of  pleasant  roguishness,  informed 
Mistress  Todd  that  she  had  made  a  conquest.  Where- 
upon the  latter  wrote  to  a  friend  that  "the  great  little 
Madison  has  asked  to  be  brought  to  see  me  this  evening." 
Come  he  did. that  very  night,  accompanied  by  Colonel 
Burr,  for  introducer.  Before  he  left  the  parlor  of  Mrs. 
Payne's  modest  boarding-house  the  great  Virginian  had 
forgotten  the  Long  Island  flirt  so  completely  that  she 

260 


A     QUAKER      TRANSFORMED 

might  never  have  existed.  He  was  undeniably,  if  per- 
haps awkwardly,  in  love  with  blooming  Dolly  Todd. 
No  one  was  more  alive  to  the  fact  than  the  volatile 
widow  herself.  "The  two  men  who  bowed  before  her 
in  the  candle-lighted  parlor  of  her  mother's  house  on  that 
night  were  singularly  unlike  in  appearance  as  in  char- 
acter. .  .  .  Burr  was  full  of  grace,  of  charm,  of 
vivacity,  with  mobile,  expressive  features,  and  an  eye 
potent  to  sway  men  against  their  will,  and  women  to 
their  undoing.  Madison  was  slow,  unimpassioned,  and 
unmagnetic,  yet  with  a  twinkle  in  his  mild  eye  which 
bespoke  a  dry  humor.  .  .  .  Burr  was  a  Senator, 
while  Madison  was  in  the  lower  house,  having  been  de- 
feated in  the  contest  for  the  seat  of  Senator  from  Virginia. 
In  this  case,  as  in  so  many  others,  however,  the  race  was 
not  destined  to  be  to  the  swift,  and  the  man  who  was  to 
be  at  the  head  of  the  nation  in  the  future  days  was  not 
the  brilliant,  versatile,  unscrupulous  Burr,  but  the  slow 
and  steadfast  Madison."1 

It  was  not  long  ere  Mistress  Washington,  wife  of  our 
first  President,  who  then  held  high  social  sway  in  the 
official  residence  on  the  south  side  of  Market  Street  below 
Sixth,2  sent  for  Mistress  Todd  to  enquire  if  it  were  surety 
that  the  widow  was  engaged  to  marry  Mr.  Madison. 
Mistress  Todd  blushingly  acknowledged  the  soft  im- 
peachment, whereat  Martha  Washington,  followed  by 

1  Dolly  Madison,  by  Maud  Wilder  Goodwin. 
8  A  tablet  marks  the  building  covering  the  site  of  the  mansion. 

251 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

the  President,  was  graciously  pleased  to  offer  most  sincere 
congratulations.  "  He  will  make  you  a  good  husband," 
said  the  First  Lady  of  the  Land.  She  spoke  as  a  true 
prophetess.  The  social  world  of  Philadelphia  soon  knew 
that  Dolly,  the  one-time  wife  of  the  industrious  John 
Todd,  was  to  marry  James  Madison. 

It  was  arranged,  after  mature  deliberation,  that  the 
wedding  ceremony  should  take  place  at  Harewood,  Vir- 
ginia, the  home  of  Dolly's  sister,  Mrs.  George  Steptoe 
Washington.  Mr.  Madison,  accompanied  by  the  future 
bride  and  her  little  son,  with  her  child-sister,  Anna  Payne, 
(who  was  to  act  as  a  sort  of  infantile  chaperon),  spent  a 
pleasant  week  in  reaching  Harewood.  Here  the  middle- 
aged  bachelor  and  the  young  widow  were  quietly  mar- 
ried on  a  day  in  September,  of  1794.  Madison  shone 
resplendent  in  a  gorgeous  suit  well  set  off  by  ruffles  of 
Mechlin  lace,  while  the  costume  of  the  bride  was  any- 
thing but  Quaker-like.  The  ceremony  was  performed 
by  a  clergyman  of  the  Episcopal  Church,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  merry  dance.  How  shocked  Dolly's  staid 
father  would  have  been!  Thus  ended  Dolly  Payne's 
Quaker  life,  which  had  sat  but  lightly  on  her  from  the 
beginning. 

The  honeymoon,  as  had  been  determined,  was  to  be 
spent  at  Montpellier,  one  of  Madison's  plantations,  in 
Orange  County,  Virginia,  and  to  this  lovely  portion  of 
country  the  newly  married  couple  started  in  a  substantial 
coach-and-four.  Here  they  passed  a  few  happy  weeks; 

252 


A     QUAKER      TRANSFORMED 

but  we  soon  find  them  back  again  in  Philadelphia.  It 
was  a  gay  life  that  certain  upper-class  Philadelphians  led 
in  those  days.  It  was  almost  as  gay,  proportionately,  as 
the  life  of  many  Philadelphians  of  to-day,  despite  the 
enormous  increase  in  wealth  and  luxury  which  the  years 
have  brought.  For  be  it  remembered  that  the  Quaker 
City  was  the  temporary  capital  of  the  infant  nation,  and 
therefore  attracted  to  it  many  gilt-laced  foreign  diplomats 
and  other  persons  of  distinction  who  appeared  quite  out 
of  harmony  with  the  old-time  simplicity  of  the  town. 
They  would  have  appeared  strangely  out  of  harmony 
with  it,  too,  had  it  not  been  that  this  old-time  simplicity 
was  fast  vanishing.  The  Quaker  element  was  slowly 
losing  its  power  and  prestige,  as  it  gradually  gave  way  to 
more  worldly,  or  at  least  more  elaborate,  ideas  and  man- 
ners. Dancing,  as  practised  at  the  "  Assemblies,"  was 
now  looked  upon  as  an  innocent  pastime  rather  than  as 
an  invention  of  the  Evil  One;  the  picturesque  Quaker 
costume  was  rapidly  becoming  the  exception  rather  than 
the  rule.  In  short,  Philadelphia  had  acquired  a  certain 
cosmopolitan  air  and  attractiveness  which  unfortunately 
it  lost,  when  the  national  capital  was  removed  to  the  then 
desert  District  of  Columbia.  Into  this  new  society  of  the 
Quaker  City  came  Monsieur  de  Talleyrand,  the  Duke  de 
la  Rochefoucauld-Liancourt,  of  the  high-sounding  title, 
the  Spanish  Marquis  D'Yrujo,  and  other  illustrious 
gentlemen  who  enjoyed  themselves  very  much  in  sipping 
the  Madeira  and  eating  the  provender  of  their  hosts,  even 

253 


ROMANCES    OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

though  they,  in  their  foreign  hearts,  may  have  considered 
the  aforesaid  hosts  a  trifle  provincial.  They  were  polite 
enough,  however,  to  these  old-time  Philadelphians,  both 
before  their  faces  and  behind  their  backs,  and  in  this  they 
form  a  delightful  contrast  to  some  other  foreigners  who 1 
have  visited  this  country  in  more  recent  times. 

It  was  into  this  pleasant  Philadelphia  society  that  Dolly 
Madison  plunged,  after  her  honeymoon,  with  the  energy 
of  a  child  who  is  at  last  let  loose  in  a  much-coveted 
playground.  She  became  popular  at  once,  not  because 
she  had  any  wonderful  brilliancy  of  conversation,  but 
rather  because  of  her  great  tact,  her  skill  in  placing  all 
those  about  her  at  their  ease,  her  gentle  flattery,  which 
made  her  friends  feel  the  more  important  in  her  presence, 
and  a  certain  quality  which  may  be  set  down,  for  want 
of  a  better  name,  as  personal  magnetism.  Her  contem- 
poraries never  pretended  that  Dolly  Madison  was  a 
genius  or  a  "woman  of  mind,"  but  they  instinctively 
admired  and  praised  her  engaging  manner,  her  tact  and 
resourcefulness.  These  traits  account  for  her  remarkable 
social  success,  and  for  the  beneficial  influence  which  she 
exerted  in  behalf  of  her  truly  devoted  husband.  Perhaps, 
in  her  own  way,  Mistress  Madison  was  as  wise  as  any  of 
her  friends.  She  knew  her  limitations,  and  was  shrewd 
enough  to  win  applause  without  trying  to  go  beyond 
them,  or  to  make  undue  pretenses. 

Washington  was  succeeded  in  the  Presidency  by  testy, 
honest  John  Adams;  next  in  the  autumn  of  1800,  the 

964 


A     QUAKER     TRANSFORMED 

seat  of  government  was  removed  to  Washington;  the 
following  spring  witnessed  the  inauguration  of  Thomas 
Jefferson  as  third  President  of  the  United  States.  How 
the  heart  of  Dolly  Madison  thrilled,  to  be  sure,  when  the 
bitter  contest  for  the  Chief  Magistracy  between  Aaron 
Burr  and  Jefferson  at  last  resulted  in  the  installation  of  the 
latter;  for  Madison  became  Secretary  of  State,  while 
Dolly  was  not  only  the  wife  of  the  secretary  but,  further- 
more, a  lady  who  was  oftentimes  called  upon  to  play 
the  principal  role  in  the  entertainments  at  the  new  White 
House.  Jefferson  was  a  widower,  his  daughters  were  not 
living  in  Washington,  and  he  sadly  needed  some  one  to  do 
the  honors  for  him. 

Although  he  was  a  man  of  breeding  and  a  thorough 
gentleman,  he  ever  affected  a  democratic  bearing — "Jef- 
fersonian  simplicity  "  it  was  called — that  seemed  at  times 
strained  to  the  verge  of  absurdity.  Political  expediency 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all. 

We  hear  amusing  stories  about  some  of  this  "sim- 
plicity," in  one  of  which  Mistress  Madison  was  an  im- 
portant, albeit  unwilling  factor.  There  was  in  Washing- 
ton, as  Minister  from  the  Court  of  Saint  James,  a  certain 
Anthony  Merry,  a  pompous,  punctilious  Englishman 
who  was  a  great  stickler  about  the  breeding  of  others, 
but  who  had  little  of  that  important  quality  himself. 
This  diplomat  had  already  taken  offense  at  what  he  chose 
to  consider  the  insulting  way  in  which  the  President  had 
received  him  at  the  White  House.  Mr.  Jefferson's  shoes, 

255 


ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

as  it  appears,  were  not  buckled  with  enough  care  to  suit 
Minister  Merry's  fastidious  taste,  and  it  was  complained 
that  the  clothes  of  the  President  were  arranged  with 
"studied  negligence  " — in  short,  that  the  whole  scene  was 
gotten  up  for  the  purpose  of  slighting  Great  Britain  in  the 
person  of  her  august  representative.  Accordingly  Mr. 
Merry  insisted  that  the  President  was  all  sorts  of  things 
except  a  gentleman,  and  the  tongues  of  the  people  of 
Washington  wagged  like  bell-clappers. 

The  ill-feeling,  however,  did  not  stop  here.  Mrs. 
Merry  was  soon  embroiled  in  the  matter.  By  invitation 
of  Mr.  Jefferson  she  accompanied  her  husband  to  the 
White  House  one  afternoon,  to  dine  with  all  the  other 
foreign  ministers  and  their  wives.  When  the  guests  were 
assembled  in  one  of  the  parlors,  and  the  servants  had 
announced  dinner,  Mr.  Jefferson  rose  and  looked  around 
him.  "Of  course,"  thought  Mrs.  Merry,  who  considered 
herself  the  most  distinguished  woman  present  because 
her  husband  represented  Great  Britain,  "  the  President 
will  take  me  into  the  dining-room."  The  President, 
however,  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  Men  twisted  their 
necks;  ladies  stared  and  then  exchanged  meaning 
glances  with  one  another.  Mrs.  Merry  looked  like  a 
thunder-cloud;  Mr.  Merry  was  furious,  and  not  polite 
enough  to  hide  the  fact.  The  President  had  offered  his 
arm  to  Mrs.  Madison,  and  was  escorting  her  out  to  the 
dining-room,  despite  the  signs  and  motions  which  she 
was  making;  for  the  latter  was  trying  to  induce  Mr. 

256 


A     QUAKER      TRANSFORMED 

Jefferson  to  give  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Merry.  He  was,  how- 
ever, purposely  blind  to  the  hint;  Mrs.  Merry  had  to 
yield  the  honor  to  the  charming  Dolly.  Perhaps  the 
President  might  have  been  a  little  more  gracious  to  these 
foreigners  had  the  Merrys  not  been  so  extremely  and 
annoyingly  anxious  that  every  possible  attention  should 
be  shown  to  them. 

During  all  her  social  success  in  Washington,  Mrs. 
Madison  went  on  strengthening  the  hands  of  her  hus- 
band, politically  speaking,  by  making  hundreds  of  friends 
for  herself,  and,  therefore,  for  Madison.  Through  it  all 
she  still  retained  that  lack  of  ostentation  which  character- 
ized her  early  social  life.  Being  a  lady  born,  she  bore 
her  honors  more  simply  than  did  certain  other  women 
who  afterwards  found  themselves,  temporarily,  very 
great  personages  at  the  infant  capital.  One  anecdote 
pleasantly  serves  to  show  how,  although  no  longer  a 
Friend,  she  still  preserved  a  saving  bit  of  Quaker  humility. 
On  a  visit  to  Philadelphia  she  chanced  to  see  an  old  lady, 
a  shopkeeper,  whom  she  had  known  when  she  was 
the  girl,  Dolly  Payne.  The  wife  of  the  Secretary  of 
State  insisted  upon  going  up-stairs,  to  a  room  just  above 
the  shop,  to  drink  a  cup  of  tea  with  the  old  lady,  and 
there  the  two  sat  for  many  a  delightful  minute,  as  they 
talked  so  volubly  about  old  times  in  Philadelphia  that 
there  was  no  chance  for  any  one  else  to  get  in  a  single 
word. 

But  greater  honors  awaited  this  unassuming  lady.     In 

257 


ROMANCES  OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

March  of  1809,  James  Madison  became  President  of  the 
United  States,  in  succession  to  Jefferson.  Mrs.  Madison 
was  now  the  centre  of  all  the  gayety  of  Washington. 
We  get  a  glimpse  of  her  first  reception  at  the  White 
House,  and  see  there  the  tall,  ungraceful  figure  of  Jeffer- 
son, who  has  determined  to  lend  such  tclat  as  an  ex- 
President  can  to  this  entertainment.  He  glides  here, 
there,  everywhere,  with  his  expressive  face  shining 
with  the  spirit  of  good  humor.  The  women  crowd 
around  him,  to  see  the  last  of  the  hero  who  is  about  to 
vanish  from  public  life.  "You  see,  they  will  follow 
you  ! "  laughs  a  companion.  "That  is  as  it  should  be," 
says  the  ex-President  gaily,  "since  I  am  too  old  to  follow 
them.  I  remember  when  Dr.  Franklin's  friends  were 
taking  leave  of  him  in  France,  the  ladies  almost 
smothered  him  with  embraces.  On  his  introducing  me 
to  them  as  his  successor,  I  told  them  that  among  the  rest 
of  his  privileges  I  wished  he  would  transfer  this  one  to 
me;  but  he  answered:  'No,  no;  you  are  too  young  a 
man!" 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Madison  welcomes  her  guests  with 
the  cordiality  that  has  made  her  famous.  But  she  keeps 
one  eye  on  her  husband,  who  looks  careworn,  as  if 
loaded  down  by  the  sense  of  his  coming  responsibilities. 
For,  however  prosaic  may  have  been  the  affection  of  this 
bright  little  woman  for  James  Madison  when  she  first 
married  him,  her  love  for  him  now  is  nothing  short  of 
middle-aged  romance.  Much  as  she  cares  for  the  world 

258 


A     QUAKER      TRANSFORMED 

of  dinners  and  bright  clothes,  her  fondness  for  them  is 
as  nothing  compared  with  her  love  for  the  new  Presi- 
dent, 

During  the  second  term  of  Madison  we  have  a  far 
different  and  quite  a  melodramatic  glimpse  of  the  "  First 
Lady  of  the  Land."  It  is  in  the  summer  of  1814,  when 
the  war  between  England  and  the  United  States  is  in 
progress,  and  the  British  are  threatening  the  very  capital 
itself.  The  American  force  which  must  defend  the  city 
is  ridiculously  small.  The  excitement  in  Washington  is 
intense.  It  is  said  that  the  British  officers  have  sworn 
that  they  will  dine  at  the  White  House  and  make  their 
bows  in  the  drawing-room  of  Mistress  Madison.  What 
is  to  be  done  ?  There  is  panic  in  the  air.  Money,  valu- 
ables, important  documents  are  hurried  in  wagons  across 
the  Potomac  to  Virginia;  the  more  timid  Washing- 
tonians  make  hasty  preparations  to  leave  the  place,  if  it 
comes  to  the  worst,  and  confusion  reigns  supreme. 

President  Madison  is  at  Bladensburg,  a  short  distance 
from  Washington,  where  the  Americans  are  trying,  un- 
successfully, to  stem  the  tide  of  British  invasion.  While 
there  he  spends  most  of  his  time  in  writing  notes  to  his 
wife,  whom  he  has  left  in  the  White  House,  and  seems 
more  exercised  for  her  safety  than  for  the  safety  of  all 
the  rest  of  the  Capital's  inhabitants.  "He  enquired 
anxiously,"  writes  Mrs.  Madison  to  her  sister,  under  date 
of  August  2^d,  "  whether  I  had  courage  and  firmness  to 
remain  in  the  Presidential  house  till  his  return,  and  on 

369 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

my  assurance  that  I  had  no  fear  but  for  him  and  the  suc- 
cess of  our  army,  he  left  me,  beseeching  me  to  take  care 
of  myself  and  of  the  Cabinet  papers,  public  and  private.  I 
have  since  received  two  dispatches  from  him,  written 
with  a  pencil.  The  last  is  alarming,  because  he  desires  I 
should  be  ready  at  a  moment's  warning  to  enter  my  car- 
riage and  leave  the  city;  that  the  enemy  seemed  stronger 
than  had  been  reported,  and  that  it  might  happen  that 
they  would  reach  the  city  with  intention  to  destroy 
it.  ...  I  am  accordingly  ready.  .  .  .  French 
John  [a  servant],  with  his  usual  activity  and  resolution, 
offers  to  spike  the  cannon  at  the  gate,  and  to  lay  a  train 
of  powder  which  would  blow  up  the  British  should  they 
enter  the  house.  To  the  last  proposition  I  positively 
object,  without  being  able,  however,  to  make  him 
understand  why  all  advantages  in  war  may  not  be 
taken." 

The  next  day  the  loyal-hearted  lady  thus  writes: 
"Will  you  believe  it,  my  sister,  we  have  had  a  battle  or 
skirmish  near  Bladensburg,  and  I  am  still  here  within 
sound  of  the  cannon!  Mr.  Madison  comes  not.  May 
God  protect  him!  Two  messengers,  covered  with  dust, 
come  to  bid  me  fly;  but  I  wait  for  him.  .  .  .  Our 
kind  friend,  Mr.  Carroll,  has  come  to  hasten  my  depar- 
ture, and  is  in  a  very  bad  humor  with  me  because  I  in- 
sist on  waiting  until  the  large  picture  of  General  Wash- 
ington is  secured,  and  it  requires  to  be  unscrewed  from 
the  wall.  This  process  was  found  too  tedious  for  these 

280 


A     QUAKER      TRANSFORMED 

perilous  moments;  I  have  ordered  the  frame  to  be  broken 
and  the  canvas  taken  out.  It  is  done,  and  the  precious 
portrait  is  placed  in  the  hands  of  two  gentlemen  of  New 
York  for  safe-keeping.1  And  now,  dear  sister,  I  must 
leave  this  house,  or  the  retreating  army  will  make  me  a 
prisoner  in  it,  by  filling  up  the  road  I  am  directed  to  take. 
When  I  shall  again  write  to  you,  or  where  I  shall  be  to- 
morrow, I  cannot  tell." 

On  this  very  morning  the  steward  of  the  White  House 
has  planned  a  dinner  for  three  o'clock  the  same  afternoon. 
The  wine  has  been  placed  in  the  coolers,  for  members  of 
the  Cabinet  are  expected  to  grace  the  Presidential  board. 
Great  men  must  eat  and  drink  sometimes,  in  spite  of 
panics.  It  is  just  about  dinner-time  when  a  negro  who 
has  accompanied  Madison  to  Bladensburg  gallops  madly 
up  to  the  White  House,  as  he  waves  his  hat  and  cries 
out:  "Clear  out!  Clear  out!  General  Armstrong  [Secre- 
tary of  War]  has  ordered  a  retreat!  " 

At  once  all  is  confusion.  Mrs.  Madison  orders  her  car- 
riage, and  as  she  passes  through  the  dining-room,  grasps 
what  she  can  crowd  into  her  reticule.  Then,  when  the 
chariot  is  brought  up  to  the  door,  she  quickly  jumps  in, 
accompanied  by  a  maid  and  one  other  companion,  and  is 
rapidly  driven  over  to  the  Georgetown  Heights.  "Mrs. 
Madison,"  relates  a  contemporary,  "slept  that  night  at 
Mrs.  Love's,  two  or  three  miles  over  the  river.  After 

1  The  portrait  of  Washington   was  safely  hidden  in  a  house  near 
Georgetown. 

261 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

leaving  that  place,  she  called  in  at  a  house  and  went  up- 
stairs. The  lady  of  the  house,  learning  who  she  was, 
became  furious,  and  went  to  the  stairs  and  screamed  out: 
'Mrs.  Madison,  if  that's  you,  come  down,  and  go  out! 

Your  husband  has  got  mine  out  fighting,  and  d you, 

you  shan't  stay  in  my  house.  So  get  out! ' ' 

Thus  Dolly  Madison  learned,  for  once,  how  adversity 
can  change  the  warmth  of  one's  reception.  A  week 
before  the  swearing  virago  would  have  groveled  at  the 
feet  of  the  President's  wife.  But  Mrs.  Madison,  taking 
the  lesson  with  both  philosophy  and  good  breeding,  left 
the  house  at  once  and  lodged  elsewhere. 

It  was  not  long  after  her  hasty  exit  from  the  White 
House  that  the  enemy's  troops  entered  Washington. 
They  behaved  in  a  way  that  must  always  leave  a  blot  on 
the  record  of  British  arms.  When  the  Capital  had  been 
set  on  fire,  some  of  the  officers  proceeded  to  the  White 
House,  where,  after  doing  full  justice  to  the  dinner 
awaiting  the  absent  Cabinet,  they  stole  a  vast  quantity  of 
wine  from  the  cellars,  and  then  lighted  a  bonfire  of  fur- 
niture in  one  of  the  parlors.  But  there  is  no  need  to  re- 
peat further  the  story  of  vandalism.  War  is  not  always 
conducted  upon  chivalrous  lines. 

The  wanderings  of  the  Madisons  during  the  compara- 
tively few  hours  that  the  British  held  carnival  in  Wash- 
ington have  become  a  part  of  American  history.  How 
Mrs.  Madison  had  literally  to  beg  for  shelter  in  an  inn; 
how  her  husband,  looking  more  like  a  fugutive  from 

262 


A     QUAKER      TRANSFORMED 

justice  than  the  President  of  these  great  United  States, 
turned  up  at  this  same  inn;  how  she  forgot  all  her 
troubles  in  having  him  near  her;  how  Madison  at  length 
fled  out  into  the  raging  storm,  because  the  British  were 
supposed  to  be  hunting  him  as  hounds  might  hunt  a 
criminal;  how  he  spent  the  night  in  a  miserable  hut  in 
the  forest;— all  these  things  we  recall  as  we  review  the 
history  of  the  War  of  1812.  It  must  be  confessed  that 
the  worthy  President  does  not  make  a  heroic  figure  amid 
this  excitement.  The  statesman  cannot  always  play  the 
bold  commander. 

In  a  short  time  Washington  was  evacuated  by  the 
British.  The  Madisons  hurried  back  to  the  White  House, 
to  find  it  in  charred  ruins.  Ere  long  the  tide  of  victory 
turned  in  favor  of  the  Americans.  Then  came  peace, 
with  the  ringing  of  church  bells,  the  booming  of  cannon, 
and  much  brilliancy  of  illumination.  A  great  many  per- 
sons on  both  sides  of  the  ocean  were  glad  that  the  war 
was  over.  Thus  life  went  on  until  Madison  finished  his 
second  term  as  President,  and  with  his  wife  retired  to  the 
peaceful  shades  of  Montpellier.  Here,  for  many  a  pleas- 
ant year,  they  led  the  placid  life  of  a  high-bred  Virginia 
couple.  Here  Madison  studied,  read  and  thought  of  the 
stirring  events  of  the  past;  here  Mrs.  Madison  tended  her 
wonderful  garden  and  dispensed  a  hospitality  at  once 
lavish  and  gracious.  When  the  two  used  to  talk  over 
the  fall  of  Aaron  Burr — his  killing  of  Alexander  Hamilton, 
and  his  treason  against  his  own  country— they  must  have 

263 


ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

had  at  least  one  grateful  thought  for  the  one-time  friend 
who  had  made  them  known  to  each  other  in  the  parlor 
of  Mrs.  Payne's  boarding-house.  Over  the  front  door  of 
the  Montpellier  mansion  might  have  been  inscribed: 
"Love  grows  with  the  years." 

One  might  have  supposed,  indeed,  that  the  Madisons 
were  youthful  lovers,  to  judge  from  the  letters  they 
wrote  one  to  the  other  during  the  occasional  trips  which 
the  husband  took  to  Charlottesville.  One  letter  reads 
as  though  old  Mrs.  Madison — it  is  hard  to  think  of  Dolly 
as  old,  is  it  not  ? — had  but  just  been  wedded.  It  runs : 

"Monday,  Nine  O'clock. 

"My  Beloved, — I  trust  in  God  that  you  are  well  again, 
as  your  letters  assure  me  you  are.  How  bitterly  I  regret 
not  going  with  you!  Yours  of  Friday  midday  did  not 
reach  me  till  last  evening.  I  felt  so  full  of  fear  that  you 
might  relapse  that  I  hastened  to  pack  a  few  cloaths  and 
give  orders  for  the  carriage  to  be  ready  and  the  post 
waited  for.  This  morning,  happily  the  messenger  has 
returned  with  your  letter  of  yesterday,  which  revives  my 
heart  and  leads  me  to  hope  you  will  be  up  at  home  on 
Wednesday  night  with  your  own  affectionate  nurse.  If 
business  should  detain  you  longer — or  you  should  feel 
unwell  again,  let  me  come  for  you.  .  .  .  I  hope  you 
received  my  last  of  Thursday  containing  letters  and 
papers.  My  mind  is  so  anxiously  occupied  about  you 
that  I  cannot  write.  May  angels  guard  thee,  my  dear 
best  friend!  D ." 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1836  that  Madison,  who  had 
become  a  helpless,  rheumatic  invalid,  died  with  a  harm- 
less jest  upon  his  lips.  A  servant  had  brought  him  his 

264 


A     QUAKER      TRANSFORMED 

breakfast,  but  he  could  not  swallow  it.  "What  is  the 
matter,  Uncle  James  ? "  asked  a  niece  who  was  with 
him.  "  Nothing  more,  my  dear,  than  a  change  of  mind," 
he  answered.  Then  his  head  dropped  upon  his  chest, 
and  he  ceased  to  breathe  "as  quietly  as  the  snuff  of  a 
candle  goes  out." 

No  need  to  tell  of  the  sorrow  which  came  into  the 
widow's  life.  It  was  to  her  as  if  the  sun  had  ceased  to 
shine.  But  she  was  a  brave  woman,  and  the  world  could 
never  quite  lose  its  charm  for  one  endowed  with  such  a 
healthy,  normal  mind. 

During  the  last  eleven  or  twelve  years  of  Mrs.  Madi- 
son's life  we  see  her  living  with  a  niece  once  more  in 
Washington,  not  far  from  the  White  House,  and  as  if  by 
right — becoming  once  more  a  distinct  queen  of  society! 
She  is  now  a  woman  of  over  seventy;  but,  though  she 
may  dress  in  rather  an  antique  costume,  she  attends  a 
ball  as  gayly  as  if  she  were  a  girl  of  eighteen.  "  What 
a  difference  twenty  years  makes  in  society,"  she  says 
once,  as  she  peers  at  the  Washingtonians  who  are  dan- 
cing around  her.  "  Here  are  young  men  and  women  not 
born  when  I  left  the  capital,  whose  names  are  familiar, 
but  whose  faces  are  unknown  to  me."  And  all  the 
while  the  youngest-spirited  person  in  the  room  is  Mis- 
tress Dolly  Madison!  Indeed,  she  never  cares  to  look 
upon  herself  as  an  old  woman;  years  do  not  count  where 
the  heart  is  kept  young.  Yet  with  all  her  cheerfulness 
she  has  had  troubles  which  would  have  killed  any  less 

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ROMANCES   OF   EARLY   AMERICA 

volatile  creature;  for  that  worthless  child  of  hers,  Payne 
Todd,  spendthrift  and  gambler,  has  forced  her  to  sell 
Montpellier,  and  is  always  making  demands  on  her 
purse  that  almost  reduce  her  to  the  ranks  of  a  pauper. 

Through  it  all  the  dear  old  lady  holds  levees,  to  which 
all  the  great  people  flock,  much  as  if  she  were  still  the 
wife  of  the  President.  We  see  her  at  one  of  these  en- 
tertainments, erect  and  dignified,  with  the  impressiveness 
of  a  true  Virginia  grande  dame  of  olden  time.  She  is 
dressed  in  purple  velvet,  with  plain  straight  skirt  amply 
gathered  to  a  tight  waist,  cut  low  and  filled  in  with  soft 
tulle.  Her  throat,  still  white  and  unwrinkled,  is  encircled 
by  a  lace  cravatte,  fastened  with  an  amethyst  pin.  On 
her  head  is  a  wonderful  turban,  made  of  some  silky  ma- 
terial; over  her  shoulders  is  thrown  a  little  lace  shawl  or 
cape.  There  are  two  bunches  of  very  black  curls  on 
either  side  of  the  smooth  brow,  which  seems  almost  like 
that  of  a  young  girl.  The  violet-blue  eyes  are  full  of 
sparkle,  and  mirror  laughter;  the  mouth  is  smiling;  the 
complexion  is  as  soft  and  pretty  as  might  be  the  com- 
plexion of  a  girl.  Such  is  the  venerable  Mistress  Madi- 
son, enjoying  this  world  until  the  last,  yet  never  forget- 
ting her  husband,  who  has  gone  to  that  other  world  of 
which  we  know  so  little.  She  is  a  true  philosopher,  if 
ever  woman  was,  enjoying  all  that  her  life  offers;  she 
can  take  pleasure  in  a  levee,  crowded  with  American  no- 
tabilities and  foreign  dignitaries,  and  she  can  take  pleas- 
ure, too,  in  the  memory  of  James  Madison.  Even  that 

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A      QUAKER      TRANSFORMED 

worthless  son,  who  will  soon  descend  to  a  dishonored, 
unmourned  grave,  cannot  crush  the  marvelous  spirit. 

With  all  her  love  of  existence  Dolly  Madison  has 
within  her  a  certain  spiritual  quality  which  tells  her  that 
the  things  of  this  earth  are  not,  after  all,  so  very  impor- 
tant. Perhaps  that  quality  has  been  inherited  from  the 
Society  of  Friends.  She  becomes  more  interested  in  re- 
ligion as  old  age  increases:  at  last  the  Episcopalian 
Bishop  of  Maryland  baptizes  and  then  confirms  her,  ac- 
cording to  the  beautiful  ritual  of  his  church.  ' '  There  is 
nothing  in  this  world  really  worth  caring  for,"  she  says 
gently,  towards  the  end. 

It  is  a  day  in  July,  of  1849.  Mrs.  Madison  is  ill,  but  lis- 
tening to  a  chapter  from  the  New  Testament.  As  she  lies 
there,  drinking  in  the  words  whose  spirit  seems  so  far 
away  from  all  the  worldliness  of  the  past,  she  falls  into 
a  peaceful  sleep.  It  is  her  last  sleep  on  this  troublous 
planet.  In  two  more  days  she  is  dead.  When  the  people 
of  Washington  hear  of  her  passing  away,  they  can  do 
nothing  but  speak  her  praise.  She  who  had  kind  thoughts 
for  many  has,  in  return,  many  a  kind  thought  bestowed 
upon  her.  She  is  given  a  public  funeral,  as  befits  the 
wife  of  a  patriot,  and  to  it  come  the  President,  members 
of  the  Cabinet,  the  Diplomatic  Corps,  Senators,  Repre- 
sentatives, officers  of  the  Army  and  Navy,  and  many 
more,  of  high  and  low  degree.  On  her  grave  in  a  local 
cemetery  flowers  are  strewn  as  emblems  of  that  bloom 
of  life  which  had  never  left  her.  A  few  years  later 

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ROMANCES   OF  EARLY   AMERICA 

the  body  of  Dolly  Madison  is  placed  by  the  side  of  her 
husband  at  Montpellier. 

It  is  fitting  that  the  wife  should  lie  so  near  the  well- 
loved  husband.  The  courtship  between  the  two  may 
have  lacked  picturesqueness,  but  their  married  life  proved 
to  be  a  true  romance  which  only  deepened  in  intensity 
as  the  twilight  of  old  age  crept  gently  over  them.  Would 
that  all  other  romances  might  end  as  serenely! 


